


don't you forget about me

by Appleface



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, F/F, Falling In Love, First Love, I have extremely limited french but nonetheless i give it a go, Seaside, Summer, Summer Romance, a healthy dose of self indulgence, ah yes the wise gay aunt, are you ready to feel seventeen again?, lots of fluff, some angst tho, yes i know i just finished my other fanfic and i have many responsibilities but let me have this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 54,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24080683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Appleface/pseuds/Appleface
Summary: Marianne is seventeen. She’s sent away for a few weeks in the summertime to an isolated island where she will stay with her aunt. And while there, of course, she can’t help but enter a mutual fascination with the angry girl who has always lived by the sea, and yet never learned how to swim.On the horizon, a summer storm approaches.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 449
Kudos: 454





	1. how to make a good first impression

**Author's Note:**

> Because my last fic destroyed me all over again in the process (in a good way!!!) and seemed to also destroy you too, reader, I decided to be a little nicer this time around (though I'm not saying this story will be absent of tragedy. Few things are). So now I’m going full self-indulgence. We’re talking adolescence, summer, the seaside, first love, coming of age, and haircuts.
> 
> Introducing:  
> don’t you forget about me.

Marianne gets across to the island by ferry, and easily picks her aunt’s face out of the crowd, despite not having seen her since she was nine. Aunt Pauline hasn’t changed much since then, save for a few grey hairs and a new pair of glasses.

“Oh, Marianne!” she thrills, pulling her niece in for a messy hug. “It’s been too long! Let me see you…”

She pulls out of the hug and holds Marianne at arm’s length, observing her carefully all over the face. Already, Marianne’s stomach takes a dive, and she settles in for teary eyes and those words that have grown all too familiar: _“You look just like your father.”_

To her immense relief, Pauline only smiles and takes a step back. “You’ve grown so much. And you’re beautiful, of course! The photos your maman sent over the years don’t do you justice.”

“The camera on her phone is awful,” Marianne agrees somewhat shyly, and picks up her bags as she is guided to the car.

\--

They arrive at the house rather quickly, and Marianne puts her things in the spare room, which is on the second floor. It’s small and bare with the bed made up. But what draws Marianne’s attention is the balcony. As if by instinct, she opens the doors and walks out onto it. It’s not very high off the ground and seems a little unnecessary and clunky. But she knows she’ll be using it as much as possible during her stay. She stands and looks over the village which is a little gloomy-looking, even against the picturesque backdrop. There is a grassy field that stretches out further away, and beneath the rocky cliffs is a beach.

A beach. Marianne feels some tugging in her chest, which excites her immensely. Is that a scrap of inspiration or want? She realises that she must go there immediately.

She runs downstairs and asks Pauline if it’s too soon to go exploring.

“Where are you thinking?” Pauline asks from the living room, where she sits with a book in her lap, round glasses having slid down her nose.

“The beach. I’d like to do some drawing down there.”

Marianne’s aunt glances at the clock on the wall. “That’s fine. Could you be back in an hour and a half? I’m going to start making dinner.”

“Of course.”

With a flash of dark eyes, Pauline asks a question in the same casual tone of voice. “You’re still drawing?”

Marianne stills, suddenly aware of the weight of the sketchpad she holds in her hand. “Yes.”

“Do you paint, too?”

“Yeah.”

Pauline smiles, though her eyes reveal no joy. “You look so afraid. Don’t worry, I won’t interrogate you any further. Go and explore.”

Marianne gratefully takes the opportunity and exits.

\--

Marianne expects that after she walks for some time, there will be other people on the beach. But it seems entirely deserted. If she only faced forward and didn’t turn around, this island could be entirely rural. Maybe it’s empty because of the overcast weather. Or maybe if someone lives in a seaside town all their life, the beach becomes boring. Though Marianne can’t imagine that ever happening. She could watch the waves crash again and again, and it would excite her just the same each time.

Eventually she settles below the cliffs and puts down her shoes (she had taken them off before as to not let them fill with sand). Marianne pulls out her sketchbook and flicks past all the pages full of unfinished drawings and scribbles. Seeing her previous failed attempts disheartens her, so she quickly flicks past them. But when the blank page reveals itself she finds that she can muster no kind of inspiration or urge. That tugging feeling she felt on the balcony is long since lost. Even with the strikingly unreal surroundings, the pencil remains still in her hand.

Marianne tries to force herself into old habits that she knows so well and used to enjoy. She gently sketches an approaching wave, which was clearly a mistake, as it soon returns to the ocean.  
“What was I expecting,” Marianne mumbles to herself, not a question. She wishes she had brought an eraser.

Next, she tries to focus on the sky and the clouds, but when they too appear uninteresting to her eye, she faces the rocks. And suddenly they hold no artistic interest to Marianne at all. The beauty is spoiled as soon as she thinks of them in terms of artwork.

Marianne presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and shuts the sketchbook. She balances it on top of her lace-up shoes, then curls her toes into the sand. Something buzzes in her head. Like a drill.

Marianne stands up, though she doesn’t know what propels her to do so, and walks forward to the sea. The water is grey and brown against the wet sand, and the foam fizzles white around her pale feet. From the balcony at her aunt’s house it all looked so blue. _Maybe,_ Marianne thinks, _I should’ve stayed there to draw it._

Marianne looks up. And sees somebody in the water.

Maybe she didn’t first see them because of just how far out to sea they are. So far out that it’s difficult to see anything defining, other than wet hair and arms flailing about.

After a moment, something strikes Marianne in the throat. Flailing. Flailing can’t be good. She looks around, but sees no sign of a lifeguard or anybody at all, and then turns back to the sea just in time to watch the head and arms go under.

Marianne waits. But they don’t come back up.

She is gripped by sudden, blind fear. Without thinking at all Marianne rushes into the water, crying out.

“I’M COMING!” she yells, and begins to shout again but is stifled by a splash of cold water around the ankles. Though soon, Marianne swallows and calls again: _“I’M COMING!”_

Does shouting even matter? She still can’t see the person. Is it too late? Marianne pushes against the coming waves, which are so shockingly cold that each one elicits a sort of whimper from her. But she keeps running, even as the water reaches her thighs, then her hips, and it becomes much more like wading.

Soon, Marianne realises that she can’t really run in the ocean. And so, with a gulp of seaside air, she throws herself into the water, and after suppressing a shriek, begins to swim. Her clothes make it difficult to move, especially when pulling her arms up. In the wet, chattery blur of it all, Marianne can’t really remember how to swim well, despite having taken years of lessons as a child. She can only think of the flailing arms out at sea, and the totally desolate beach all around.

A wave crashes just as Marianne comes up for air, and saltwater goes down her throat. She starts to cough and instantly thinks: _fucking hell, now they’re just gonna find two drowned people instead of one. Great life choices, Marianne._ Still, she attempts to keep swimming with her head above the water, though soon the strokes are more like desperate thrashing, and Marianne’s swimming is more like drowning.

Just as more water finds its way down her throat, a hand closes around Marianne’s wrist.

Her ears are clogged with water, but as the grip starts to pull her up, an irritated tone bleeds in, between ripples.

“…get up. _Merde,_ get up!”

Marianne wonders, fleetingly, if that’s a god speaking to her. She hasn’t believed in god for about seven years, but she supposes that if there is one, she might sound a little like that. And have a grip as insistent as the one clutching to her wrist. Marianne tries to do as it says, and takes a moment to focus and stop scrambling. Rather easily, her toes kick at sand under the water, and she pulls her face from the ocean, blinking desperately and still coughing. Once Marianne’s shoulders come up, the hand lets go of her wrist.

Marianne blinks and gasps as saltwater runs from her eyes like she’s crying. She tries to dry her face with the back of her hand or her sleeve, but it only worsens the problem. Marianne is completely soaked. Eventually, she manages to regain some semblance of vision and sees the grey water up to her collarbones, and the shore rather far out. Before her, also submerged in the ocean, is not god. Instead, a girl Marianne’s age with narrowed eyes the colour of the sky.

She’s staring, completely alarmed. As soon as Marianne starts to think properly again, she realises that this girl was the drowning person. Who now doesn’t seem to be drowning at all, and all along was stood in shallow water.

After a long, judging glare, the girl turns away and begins to slowly wade her way towards shore. After a gawping moment, Marianne starts to follow her, still shaky and freezing.

“Hey!” she calls, after coughing up some more seawater and trying not to slip on the ocean floor.

The girl doesn’t respond. Now that the sea is relenting, Marianne sees the black swimsuit sticking to her skin, along with wet strands of dark blonde hair.

Marianne doesn’t shout after her again, mostly because, as she climbs out from the waves the cold starts to set deep in her bones. She begins to chatter, even with the wet clothes sticking to her skin. Marianne hugs herself and digs her chin into her neck. Once she sluggishly arrives ashore, the girl whips around and fixes her with a bold, furrowed stare. “What were you doing? You looked mad.”

Maybe later, when Marianne is not frozen, she’ll feel completely mortified by this. But now, as the sand sticks to her wet feet, she can only think to chatter out a response. “I thought you were drowning.”

The girl blinks. Once, twice. “I was swimming.”

“Were you?” Marianne asks without thinking. The water is still clinging to her face and dripping from strands of loose hair.

“Yes,” responds the girl indignantly. She stands in a very poised manner, and despite shivering, her words don’t chatter when she speaks. “Who are you to judge? I had to save you, in the end.”

Marianne doesn’t respond to that. The girl looks her over and inhales through her nose.

“Stay here,” she orders, and walks away. Marianne thinks for a moment that she’s just going to leave, but then the girl stops and crouches down behind a rock. As if by magic, she pulls out a pair of towels. She drapes one over her own shoulders, and then brings the other over. “Here." She hands it to Marianne.

It’s a deep brown colour. Marianne hugs herself with it. “Thank you,” she says when she manages to settle her chattering teeth.

Marianne thinks, initially, that the girl will wait quietly until Marianne is a little drier, take the towel back and leave. But she doesn’t. After a strange sort of quiet passes between them, the girl asks: “Why are you here?”

After quickly swiping at her face to dry it with the towel, Marianne gives an answer. “I was drawing.”

The girl shakes her head. “No, I mean why are you on the island? You’re not from here.”

Marianne moves around slightly, uncomfortable with the way the sand is sticking to her damp feet and ankles. “I’m staying here with my aunt for a few weeks.”

“Who’s your aunt?”

“Pauline Chevalier.”

“Ah, oui,” the girl nods, satisfied. She still doesn’t move away.

Marianne takes a chance. “Why did you look like you were drowning?”

The girl’s eyes narrow for a moment, and Marianne wonders if she’ll march off. Miraculously, she doesn’t. “I’m trying to learn how to swim before summer ends. I'm moving to Milan.”

“Ah,” Marianne nods, “will there be a beach there too?”

“I don’t know,” the girl admits, pulling the corners of the towel across her chest. “I just wanted to learn because I never have.”

Marianne looks at her some more and feels suddenly compelled. “I’m Marianne.”

She doesn’t break the gaze. “Héloïse.”

Marianne nods. “I would shake your hand, but I think it would be clammy.”

Héloïse nods in return. A pair of shaking heads. “That seems wise. Keep the towel.”

And like that, Héloïse turns around and walks away, grabbing some things from behind the same rock before walking the opposite direction. Marianne is nearly compelled to stand there and watch her go. But a greater part of her wants to get back to Pauline and dry herself off properly.

Still. Marianne pictures Héloïse’s furrowed brow and soaked face as she shivers her way back to the house.


	2. how to make friends

Marianne wakes groggily in a tangle of white sheets. There’s sunlight streaming through the glass in the French doors that lead out to the balcony. She sighs in a resigned sort of way and pulls herself up.

Her phone tells her it’s just past 7 a.m. Her usual school-year routine is impeding on her summer, and Marianne has become wired against lie-ins. She needs the bathroom. And a glass of water. She thinks it would be counterproductive to pee first and then drink more water, and so first she pads lightly across the floorboards and opens the creaky door out onto the landing.

Downstairs, all is still, and the sun lazily graces the room through the boxy windows that adorn downstairs. Marianne stands in the kitchen and lets water run into a glass she picked from the cupboard.

“The water in the countryside is always so much better,” her dad assured her once, several years ago. “When my sister and I lived in Brittany as children, we used to drink from the well.”

“Can I drink from a well when we go visit auntie Pauline?” Marianne asked him with a pair of shining eyes.

“Ah, I’m not sure if that’s possible, these days,” admitted her father, but managed a smile nonetheless. “But you will go there one day, and taste the water in the morning. The best water on the planet.”

Drinking from the tap in her aunt Pauline’s kitchen, Marianne is greeted with the taste of ordinary water. Much like the kind she tastes from her home in the city. But she tries to imagine that it tastes just as magical as her dad told her it would.

As she rinses the glass and places it upside-down in the sink, Marianne turns her head to look out into Pauline’s small back garden. There’s a fence and a small shed, which Pauline said she would need to clear out over the summer. A short washing line stretches the length of the garden, and a now-dry brown towel moves gently with the breeze.

\--

Marianne was right in thinking that the shock and cold of yesterday had delayed her embarrassment. This morning, she hides her face in her hands while Pauline laughs at her.

“I didn’t know what to think when you came back soaked,” she comments, and takes a bite from her toast. Pauline is leaning one arm on another book, different from what she was reading yesterday. “But the story was better than I could’ve ever imagined.”

“I’m mortified,” Marianne mumbles into her palms, which only makes Pauline laugh harder.

“You never told me who the girl was,” she points out. In fairness, Marianne’s quick recounting the day before had been overshadowed by her desperate need to wash her tangled hair free of saltwater.

“I didn’t catch her surname. Héloïse something.”

“Ah, you met Héloïse? That’s interesting.”

“She did recognise your name, when she asked who I was staying with,” Marianne recalls, “do you know each other?”

“Everybody here at least knows _of_ each other,” shrugs Pauline. Another bite of jam-covered toast. “I don’t know her mother well. They’re a rich family and always keep to themselves. But Héloïse and her sister and cousin used to hang around here quite often.”

“Used to? Not anymore?”

“Well, look at this!” Pauline’s eyebrows shoot up, and the corners of her mouth quirk into a smile. “Are you interested in investigating this girl?”

Marianne shrugs. “It seems like it could lead to some inspiration.”

Pauline nods like she understands.

“And thank you,” Marianne adds after she helps load the dishwasher. “For washing the towel and hanging it out to dry.”

“Ah, of course.”

“I’m going to bring it back to her today.”

“Are you?” another glimmer of interest reflects behind Pauline’s glasses. “How do you plan to find her again?”

Marianne shrugs, but in a way that suggests she may have some idea, which she doesn’t. “Maybe she’ll see me and say hello.”

A wisp of a smile is visible on Pauline’s mouth, and this time her eyes reflect it. “Maybe. _Peut-être.”_

\--

The beach is busier than it was the day before. Maybe because it’s not so overcast, instead nice enough outside to be wearing sunglasses. Even so, it’s still early, and most people at the beach are out in the water. Something tells Marianne it will be a while before she goes swimming again.

Marianne gets a few strange looks. At first, she thinks that maybe it’s the towel slung over her shoulder despite not wearing a swimsuit or even anything vaguely summery. She's beginning to regret bringing her long coat into this weather. She can already feel her hair beginning to stick to the back of her neck with sweat. Though maybe, on second thought, they’re staring because she’s a new face in a crowd of familiarity.

Marianne walks and walks, looking all around for a glimpse of Héloïse. Despite having only met her once in a frozen haze, Marianne can picture her rather well. Round, stormy eyes, sloped shoulders, a frowning pink mouth. Maybe her hair would be a lighter colour when dry. It could be considered strange for somebody else to notice the particularities of a person’s face. But Marianne is an artist. She’s supposed to be good at remembering things.

She finds herself a little stranded and staring out to sea in a forlorn sort of manner. Marianne is considering which option is worse: keep the coat on and die of heatstroke, or lug it around with the towel and probably trip over her own feet? These options are being carefully considered in her mind when somebody taps her lightly on the shoulder.

In a rush, she turns, only to not find Héloïse. Instead, there is a short, round-faced girl in a summery dress with a small messenger bag slung across her shoulder. She’s likely younger than Marianne by a year or two. Her eyes are very wide and observant, but not in a scrutinizing way. She smiles at Marianne. “Are you looking for somebody?”

Marianne forces herself to overcome the disappointment of not finding Héloïse there, and turns completely to face the new apparition. “Yeah. A girl lent me this towel yesterday for… reasons.”

 _Well, that’s not suspicious sounding at all,_ Marianne scolds herself internally. The girl narrows her eyes and the smile widens on her face. “Was her name Héloïse?”

Marianne blinks. She manages to cloak her surprise, something she has mastered in recent years. “Yeah."

“It sounds like something she’d do.”

"Do you know her?"

The girl nods and her smile stretches into a beam. She holds out a small hand. “I’m Sophie, Héloïse’s cousin.”

Marianne takes Sophie's hand and finds her grip to be firm and enthusiastic. She introduces herself in return: "Marianne."

“I’m sort of afraid to ask why Héloïse gave you a towel.”

Marianne laughs. “It’s a long story.”

Sophie’s eyes brighten. “What if you told me on the way to Héloïse’s house? I’m there all the time anyway, and I have a key. You could return the towel?”

Marianne’s eyebrows shoot up for a moment, and she lets out a slight burst of a laugh. “Wow. You’re very enthusiastic about this.”

Sophie shrugs, reverting into herself a little more. Hands behind her back. “Well. Nothing ever happens here.”

Marianne doesn’t necessarily believe that. She shrugs in return but finishes with a closed-mouth smile. “Okay, I’ll tell you along the way. But it’s a very embarrassing story.”

Sophie takes Marianne up the cliffs and through a field of long grass, leaving the waves crashing blue and grey behind them. Marianne finishes the story with one hand to her face to cover her reddened cheeks. Sophie relishes in it.

“Oh, wow,” she tries to suppress a giggle. Fails. “Poor Héloïse.”

“What do you mean poor Héloïse?” splutters Marianne, suddenly indignant. “I’m the one who nearly drowned in shallow water.”

Sophie holds her hands up in defence, still smiling. “Well, yes, and I love that you have to live with that for the rest of your life. But imagine, you’re minding your own business out at sea when somebody starts yelling. Then, they start fucking _barrelling_ towards you in the water.”

“Oh my god,” Marianne groans, and smothers her face with both hands. “Only for me to reach her and immediately start drowning.”

“At least you owned it.”

“In the moment. If I see her again I think I’ll actually blow up.”

Sophie bites back another brimming smile, but it comes out in a snort. “I owe you a story in return now,” she says, “ask anytime.”

It’s strange. Marianne tends to find everybody in her school a year or more younger than her to be incredibly annoying. Though she does tend to be very impatient. But Sophie is very easy to speak with, as though they have known each other for more than ten minutes. This is very odd. Friendship has rarely ever come easy to Marianne.

The house reveals itself, stood alone in a grand, open clearing. Well, maybe 'house' is an understatement. This is a mansion. A chateau made of grey brick and peeling paint. Marianne is surprised that she couldn’t see it from the balcony in Pauline’s house. There are wild trees pressed up against the walls, and stone steps leading to a colossal front door. The rest of it is enormous and too much to take in all at once.

Sophie notices Marianne’s expression. “I know,” she says, “it’s a bit dramatic.”

“She lives here?” Marianne tries to sound casual, but it’s somewhat difficult.

“It’s a family ordeal,” explains Sophie, “the house has been here for centuries.”

Sophie leads Marianne up the front steps.

“Why are they moving? Is this being sold, or something?” Marianne asks as she shuts the gate behind her, and trudges after Sophie through the uncut grass.

Sophie’s doe eyes grow wide. “How much did you get out of Héloïse?”

“Not that much,” Marianne defends.

“It’s not a bad thing, just impressive,” comments Sophie as they stand outside the door, and she fumbles through her bag. “Héloïse doesn’t tell people things easily. She must’ve liked you.”

“Do you not remember how our meeting went?” Marianne sighs, “she was probably just in shock from my sheer dumbassery.”

Sophie snorts again. She produces a sleek silver key, which looks like it couldn’t be matched to a house so ancient-looking. And yet, it fits, though Sophie has to put her whole weight against the door in order to shove it open.

“I don’t think they’re selling it just yet,” Sophie explains further, “but Héloïse’s mother is desperate to get to Milan.”

“Why?” They are climbing stone stairs now. There’s no light in this room, at least not that Marianne can see.

“That’s where she grew up. She only came over here when she married Héloïse’s father. That’s my uncle,” Sophie explains over her shoulder. “But he died when Héloïse was just born.”

“Does Héloïse want to move?” Marianne asks. The stairs wind round and round. She’s beginning to tire.

Sophie pauses. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I hear her and her maman argue about it a lot, but they seem to argue about most things. She doesn’t like to talk about it very much. I think she’s hoping it won’t happen. But honestly, I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to go. This house is so big and lonely – they don’t use half of the rooms. I’m here all the time just to keep Héloïse company. But the island too, in general, is very boring. I’m desperate to leave. I think I’ll go to college in Paris.”

Marianne laughs. “That’s the last place you want to go, trust me.”

Sophie shrugs. “Well, then I’ll go to Bordeaux, or maybe America. As long as it’s somewhere with lots of new people. You’ll be bored too, by the end of your stay. I bet on it.”

Marianne is hoping against all odds that this isn’t true. She wants this island to turn into the magical place her father always described it as. But she has a sinking feeling that maybe it was his nostalgia that perceived the island as a fairy tale through the eyes of his child self, and Marianne is just too old to look at things that way. Though her dad would’ve called that giving up. And it’s true, that this lead seems to hold some promise.

She notices, now, that they have reached the top of the stairs. From here, you might assume that it was just a modern rich person’s place. The furniture and lighting are all sleek and white, like the kind of thing you’d see on a renovation TV show. Marianne attempts to quell her disappointment that the whole house isn’t set back in time.

Sophie leads her down a hallway, and in through to a bare-looking sitting room with an unlit fireplace and tall, wooden-paneled walls.

“Wait here while I find her,” Sophie says, “I don’t want to drag you all over the house. Héloïse could be anywhere, and she never comes when she’s called.”

Sophie makes a ‘tsk’ sort of sound, as if to say ‘typical’, and then leaves without shutting the door. Marianne hears her footsteps echo away and then vanish.

Marianne walks the full length around the room, taking the towel from her shoulder and hugging it to her chest. On one side of there is a leather couch with two brown armchairs and a big flat-screen television. The other half of the room is where the fireplace is and is mostly empty save for three wooden chairs stacked atop one another. But what draws Marianne there is an enormous portrait in a blue frame, hung up above the mantelpiece.

The painting is traditional, and the woman in it appears emotionless and poised. She must’ve had a photoshoot done and then commissioned the portrait. In it, her skin is paper-white and her hair is curled. The dress she wears is blue and likely very expensive.

The longer Marianne stares at it, the more a smile grows on her face. After some time, she even makes a small noise, which could be a laugh.

“What are you laughing at?”

“ _Crisse,_ fuck-“ Marianne exclaims, turning and staggering backwards. She cuts herself off as abruptly as possible.

In the open doorway stands Héloïse. As Marianne figured, her hair is lighter when dry. It's turned yellow like sand and tied back into a ponytail. Her eyebrows are still dark, snapped together in judgment, and her jaw is set. She’s dressed very casually and isn’t wearing shoes.

When Marianne doesn’t respond, Héloïse starts walking over. “Did you break in?”

Marianne shakes her head, suddenly free from frozen shock. “No! I met Sophie. She brought me here.”

Héloïse’s expression betrays nothing. Marianne turns so that they are facing each other, though Héloïse keeps a purposeful distance.

Suddenly, Marianne remembers the towel, which she had clasped tightly to in fright. She hands it over. “I wanted to return this. It’s washed, obviously.”

Héloïse stares at Marianne for seconds longer before slowly acknowledging the towel. She takes it back in both hands. “Merci,” she says, sounding confused. “You didn’t need to bring it back. I have a lot of towels.”

“That’s a weird thing to boast about,” Marianne says before she can stop herself.

Héloïse’s frown deepens. Marianne is sure that the extended impression she’s making is not going any better than it did yesterday. She tries to explain herself further and hopes that it won’t dig her deeper into this hole. “I was laughing at the portrait.”

Héloïse finally stops staring at Marianne to look up at the painting hung above the mantelpiece. She says nothing.

Marianne still tries to make conversation, for some desperate reason. “Who’s it of?”

“My mother,” says Héloïse without taking her eyes from it. Her lips are pursed for a moment. And then she looks at Marianne again. “Why were you laughing at it?”

“It’s just very ominous.”

“Do you think you could do better?” asks Héloïse. Not in a cruel way, but with a tone that’s genuinely curious. Still. Marianne stands there, trying to conjure some magical answer as she rubs her forehead and avoids Héloïse’s eyes.

Quick footsteps interrupt the tension, and, like an angel, Sophie comes back into the sitting room. “Héloïse, you’re here already!” her eyes dart towards Marianne for a moment, as if in apology.

“Why did you bring her in?” Héloïse sounds very serious.

Sophie, walking over, dares to roll her eyes. “Oh, chill out. Why didn’t you tell me that there was a new person on the island?”

“Is it of interest?” Héloïse’s face is a flat line.

“Yes!” Sophie squints, and then, in a softer voice: “Are you having a bad day?”

Héloïse remains entirely still. It’s then than Sophie seems to remember than Marianne is still in the room, and turns a shade paler, regretting her question.

“Sorry if I’m intruding,” says Marianne earnestly, and surprises herself with the disappointment she feels. “I can go now.”

“You’re not intruding,” Héloïse says, much to the shock of both Marianne and Sophie. “If Sophie brought you here, then it’s not technically a break in.”

That’s not really what Marianne meant, but Sophie seems to take it in total triumph. She bounces on her feet, looking back and forth between Héloïse and Marianne. “Oh my god. This is great. Are we all going to be friends now?”

“Absolutely not,” deadpans Héloïse, at the same time that Marianne says: “I’d like that.”

Sophie ignores Héloïse’s comment. “Amazing! Marianne, you’ll make things less boring and we’ll do the same for you. Oh!”

Sophie turns to the door for a second and then faces them again. “Also, Héloïse, your mother is making brunch and I told her Marianne was here. So, Marianne, you’re invited.”

“Oh,” Marianne glances back and forth between Héloïse and Sophie. Héloïse’s eyes have shot wide open, but she says nothing.

“Please stay!” Sophie pleads. “Can you text your aunt, or something?”

Despite Héloïse’s apparent alarm, she didn’t outright tell Marianne to leave. Héloïse strikes Marianne as the sort of person who tells people what she thinks of them. So maybe it would be okay to stay around? Or maybe she’s just selfish and wants to find the magic she feels might lurk in this place, that has led her all the way here. Or maybe she’s hungry, and that’s why she wants to stay. She only had one slice of plain toast for breakfast.

Marianne considers for a second, and her mouth seems to make the choice before she does. “Brunch sounds good.”

Sophie beams. Héloïse’s pale eyes flicker in the background. The portrait’s ominous stare follows the three as they leave the room.


	3. how to be nice

Héloïse’s mother looks very like her portrait, but with more of an expression. From where she’s stood, behind a counter in the kitchen, she smiles at Marianne in a tight-lipped sort of way.

“So you’re a new friend,” she says. She has a soothing sort of voice, like a violin. “Marianne, is it?”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you,” Marianne replies. She wears a different face and tone for adults she wants to impress. All the teachers back in school love Marianne, and her friends gag whenever she uses her polite voice with them.

Héloïse seems to notice this too, as she squints at Marianne when they sit at the dining table. Marianne makes a point to ignore this.

“We had a maid before, who would make the best sort of meals,” explains Héloïse’s mother in a very casual tone, slicing up a cucumber on a chopping board. “But her family is in Marseille and she needed to return to them quickly due to some emergency… though it doesn’t matter, I suppose. I would’ve had to let her go by the end of the summer. Romy couldn’t have come with us to Milan!”

She goes on for some time about this while Marianne, Héloïse, Sophie all sit at the table. At a certain point, Marianne wonders if Héloïse’s mother has forgotten that they’re here, and is simply speaking to herself. Héloïse and Sophie seem used to this. Sophie is listening with arms folded on the table, and Héloïse is ignoring her mother altogether. She’s swiping through something on her phone. Marianne discovers a dangerous urge to know what she’s looking at, but quickly bats the feeling down.

“…anyway. Here, girls,” Héloïse’s mother whips around. In the moments that Marianne was distracted, she seems to have conjured three places of fancy salmon sandwiches. Once her eyes fall upon Marianne, something flattens in her expression.

“Oh,” her tone makes Marianne feel as though she’s done something wrong. “You’re not vegetarian, are you?”

“Oh. No, not at all,” Marianne smiles, and accepts the plate. Héloïse’s mother looks entirely relieved.

Sophie thanks Héloïse’s mother when she’s given her serving. Héloïse has put her phone away, and after she takes the plate quickly says: _“Merci,”_ only to stand and promptly exit the room.

Marianne watches her vanish. When she turns her head, she sees that Héloïse’s mother has gone too. She half expects that Sophie will do the same.

Instead, Sophie sighs, and stands too, plate in hand. “They both do this. Come on.”

Héloïse left very quickly, as there’s no sign of her in the hallway. Is vanishing a talent of hers? Maybe it runs in the family. Sophie leads Marianne down to a line-up of doors.

“I promise Héloïse is nicer than she first appears.” Sophie says in a pleading sort of way. “I know how she comes off.”

“It’s fine,” Marianne says, and she’s not lying. She finds Héloïse’s behaviour to be intriguing rather than rude. Though, maybe it would grow to seem inconvenient to her. If she knows Héloïse long enough for such a thing to occur.

“She has bad days,” Sophie says after another quiet few seconds.

Marianne doesn’t get to ask what she means, because Sophie stops outside a large wooden door. On the handle hangs one of those **‘DO NOT DISTURB’** signs found in hotels. But under the bold text is handwritten in blue biro, the word: _‘bitch’._

 _‘Do not disturb, bitch.’_ It makes Marianne snort, but Sophie isn’t paying attention. She knocks on the door. No response. She sighs, and opens it. Something spikes in Marianne’s throat, but nonetheless she follows Sophie through the door.

Instantly, something about the room feels kinder. Lighter. Maybe it’s the pale blue walls or large windows, through which dappled sunlight shines. There are a few odd pieces of furniture sprinkled about. A stool in the corner, a made-up daybed and, most notably, a harpsichord to Marianne’s immediate right. On the wall opposite her sits another unlit fireplace. This place must get cold in the winter.

Sat in front of the daybed, on the floor, is Héloïse. She’s sitting cross-legged and is eating her sandwich with both hands. She doesn’t acknowledge Sophie or Marianne, and at first it’s not clear why. But then, Marianne sees small white pieces in her ears.

“She has airpods?” Marianne asks Sophie in a whisper, despite the answer already being clear.

Sophie looks pained. “Unfortunately.”

This seems to make Héloïse too powerful. It’s also hilarious to Marianne.

Sophie is having none of it. She walks over, shoes clicking on the floorboards. Héloïse looks up and has little reaction other than a slight widening of her eyes.

“Could you shut the door?” she asks Marianne, pulling out both her airpods. Marianne does so, and turns around just as Sophie sits neatly beside Héloïse, who is now pausing the music she had been playing on her phone.

Marianne joins them on the floor. For a few moments they eat in silence. Marianne takes a bite from her sandwich and glances up at Héloïse, who sits across from her. She is chewing and staring at her plate. There are two strands of hair pulled out of her ponytail to frame either side of her face. She’s thinking about something. That dangerous urge grows in Marianne again, the want to start a conversation.

“Is this your room?” Marianne asks before she can stop herself.

Héloïse glances up for just a moment. “No.” She takes another bite of the sandwich.

“It’s one of the rooms they don’t really use for anything,” explains Sophie.

“Oh. Then why is there a ‘do not disturb’ thing on the door handle?”

Héloïse shrugs, and waits a moment to swallow before answering. “I just bring that around with me to hang it outside rooms I’m in. Even though Sophie literally always ignores it.”

Sophie’s eyes widen. “I thought I was the exception! And you invite me over, what are you expecting…?”

Marianne exhales slightly through her nose and smiles, but Héloïse remains still as an untouched pool of water.

“Did you add the ‘bitch’ onto it?” Marianne asks after another pause.

Héloïse glances up again, and finally straightens her posture. “No, that was there already,” she deadpans, making sudden eye contact.

It takes Marianne a second to recognise the barely noticeable sarcastic undertone. She does that exhale-smile thing again, and she notices a slight brightening in Héloïse’s face. But it fades just as quickly as it appeared.

“Of course I added it,” Héloïse says, picking up the sandwich again. “I thought it might make _some people_ listen.”

“I knocked!” Sophie protests in a muffled way, her mouth full of salmon and bread. She covers her mouth and swallows, before adding: “You had airpods in.”

Marianne could swear that a smile flickers on Héloïse’s lips for just a second.

They finish their sandwiches, but remain sat in a triangle on the floor. Sophie mostly carries the conversation, asking Marianne about the city and about her aunt. Marianne manages to skilfully avoid mentioning her father, which Sophie either doesn’t pick up on or notices and chooses to spare Marianne an awkward explanation. Throughout the chat, Héloïse is mostly quiet, with one or two interjections. A few times, she bends her head back and looks up at the ceiling. Marianne is tempted to follow her stare, but resists and keeps her gaze level.

It’s at a quiet interval that the harpsichord draws Marianne’s attention. It has a white sheet half-draped over it, but is still easily recognisable. It looks old, and possibly doesn’t work.

Still. She asks: “Who plays?”

She directs the question at Héloïse, who is looking at the ceiling again. She lowers her stare before moving her head. _“Pardon?”_

Marianne nods across the room to the lone instrument. “The harpsichord.”

Héloïse looks over at it, as though she had forgotten it was there at all. “My sister did, before she died.”

The confession is very blatant, but not hugely casual. There is some weight behind the words that suggests this is not a far-gone tragedy. Marianne takes a moment to respond. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Héloïse shrugs. She is no longer looking at the harpsichord, instead running a finger around the rim of her now-empty plate. “You didn’t kill her.”

“You’re so intense,” says Sophie fondly, without missing a beat. She seems so used to Héloïse’s peculiar behaviour that Marianne can’t help but wonder how regularly she’s like this.

The quiet only lingers another moment, before Sophie asks: “Do you play, Marianne?”

Marianne already knows what’s bound to happen. She’s been asked to perform at so many family gatherings that it hardly fazes her anymore, though the prospect of playing in front of Héloïse makes her feel somewhat unsteady. Even so, she nods. “Not well, but yeah.”

Héloïse’s speaks without looking up. “You must be really pretentious, then.”

“Oh, incredibly,” Marianne manages. Again, she catches some amusement in Héloïse’s eyes, but it races away like a fast-moving cloud.

“Well, you have to play now,” Sophie insists.

“I’m not sure if you want that,” Marianne warns. She’s not sure why she’s delaying, exactly. Maybe it’s because she can feel Héloïse’s stare boring into the side of her face. It scalds like a hot iron.

“Come on!” Sophie leans in. “Please! Seriously, there are no standards to compare to. I can’t play anything. Héloïse, are you a musician?”

“I played the flute for one year when I was ten,” Héloïse says, eyes narrowed as though she’s recalling a painful memory. “Aside from that, no.”

“Well then. We’ll be impressed no matter what,” Sophie bats her eyelashes and leans forward, smiling sweetly. _“_ _S'il vous plaît_ _?”_

Marianne sighs, and gets to her feet. Sophie cheers, and rearranges her sitting position so that she’s facing the harpsichord. Héloïse simply turns her head.

Marianne moves the sheet which is half-draped over the instrument, and sits down. It certainly is old, though Marianne isn’t sure if there’s such thing as a new harpsichord anymore. When she took lessons, the one at her instructor’s studio had dust all over the keys. She was likely the only person who had applied to play it, and to this day, part of her wishes she had gone for guitar. These keys are a familiar black and white and not dusty. Marianne presses a few to test them out and reinvigorate her memory.

“Wow, sounds great,” Héloïse comments impassively. Marianne hears a swatting sound, likely from Sophie, and then an exhale of breath that could be a laugh. But by the time she turns in her seat, the smile is just vanishing from Héloïse’s mouth and eyes. Marianne manages to shake her head in a faux-disapproving sort of way, all while trying to keep from turning red.

A pause. “Any thoughts on Vivaldi?” She turns again to take in reactions.

“Not many,” says Sophie, and Héloïse shrugs. She shrugs a lot, Marianne thinks.

“I know a bit of the Four Seasons,” Marianne returns to the keys. There’s no response from behind her, only waiting. The silence coming from Héloïse is louder, somehow.

“This one’s about a summer storm.”

Marianne starts to play. The jamming of the keys sends a palpable sort of shock around the room, and Marianne can feel the ease return to her. She pauses appropriately. Lets the tension build. Does the same again. The music flows down like a waterfall, and in her mind this is where violins should come in. But instead, she keeps trying to play, even as the sheet music she tried to learn off begins to ebb from her mind.

“Ah,” she vocalises her frustration. Tries to keep going. Though clunky, rain lashes, thunder growls. The wind still cracks, and lightning flashes like a spider web against the sky.

But eventually, Marianne loses it. She throws her hands up, breaking the illusion. “I can’t remember it,” she announces, half-apologetic.

Clapping sounds from behind. Marianne turns and smiles at Sophie, who makes whooping noises from where she’s sat so delicately. But it’s Héloïse that draws Marianne’s attention.

She’s not clapping, and the staring isn’t unordinary. But the brightness that Marianne had caught glimpses of has now been brought into full effect on Héloïse’s face. Her mouth is shut but when Marianne looks at her, the corners of her lips flicker, and her eyes move up and down Marianne. She is sitting very still, and her gaze is deliberate.

Something about the way she’s staring knocks the breath out of Marianne, and she finds herself sat there with an open mouth. Once recovered, she is drenched in both high spirits and sheer embarrassment. So she stands to take a mock-bow for the applause, and pretends that her red face is due to the blood that rushed to her head. Still, she remains flushed throughout the remainder of her stay.

\--

Around two hours pass and Marianne receives a text from her Aunt Pauline asking if it would be inconvenient for her to help her on a trip to the supermarket. Marianne, ever-polite, says it’s no problem.

Sophie says goodbye from the room, but Héloïse, strangely, insists on walking Marianne to the door. The walk there is quiet, save for Héloïse’s chorus of “this way.”

Marianne follows Héloïse down the stairs, and watches her yellow ponytail swish. For a moment, she becomes so concentrated on it that she nearly trips and falls, but quickly recovers herself before Héloïse can turn her head.

Héloïse opens the door with greater ease than Sophie managed earlier, and then stands by it. Her eyes haven’t lost their shine since Marianne played the harpsichord.

“Thanks for having me,” says Marianne.

“Thanks for giving the towel back.”

“Even though you have lots of towels.”

Another ghostly smile, and maybe a slight flush of colour. Though it’s all gone before Marianne knows if it was really there at all. Héloïse shifts her weight onto her other side, then says: “And, sorry for indirectly calling you a bitch.”

Marianne blinks. _“Quoi?”_

“With the ‘do not disturb’ sign.”

“Oh. Don’t worry about that, it was funny.”

Héloïse nods once, then twice. “Also. Sorry for not being very nice.”

This brings a smile into Marianne’s face. There’s something in Héloïse’s expression that is quintessentially nervous and familiar. “Don’t apologise. I’m not very nice either, I don’t think.”

Héloïse furrows her brows and tilts her head, ever so slightly. “No? You seem lovely.”

“I have a lot of people fooled,” Marianne replies, and then quickly picks up on the latter half of Héloïse’s response. “You think I’m lovely?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Héloïse blinks again. Once, twice, three times. Then she looks down, and up again. Marianne finds herself smiling, and tries to reel it in.

“I’d like to see you again,” Héloïse announces. “Sophie would too. Are you free tomorrow?”

Marianne is quick to respond. “I’m free every day, I think. As long as I’m here.”

Héloïse nods, satisfied. Her eyes are very wide, and for a moment, both girls stand there beside the open door.

Just before it could grow awkward, Héloïse leans forward and quickly kisses Marianne on both cheeks. It’s fleeting, so much so that it could well not have happened at all. But when Héloïse’s head is back in place, she is looking at Marianne like she’s waiting for a reaction.

This isn’t uncommon, obviously. Some of Marianne’s more affectionate friends say hello and goodbye this way, as well as some older relatives. Maybe Héloïse was just raised to do that. But something tells Marianne that this is not the case. That’s supported when Marianne breaks into a somewhat-embarrassed grin, and Héloïse starts smiling, tight-lipped and pink. But this smile doesn’t disappear.

They take each other in for a moment, before Marianne blurts: “Uh – well, I, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Héloïse nods again and again. “ _Oui_ , good. Bye, thanks for coming.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

They’re stalling greatly in-between goodbyes, and dance around each other like hummingbirds. Eventually, Héloïse shuts the door and Marianne walks off down the steps. She doesn’t dare to touch her cheeks on the way back. Instead, she remains increasingly aware of the feeling for the remainder of the day, and is nearly disappointed when the sensation washes away during her evening shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know why I gave Héloïse airpods??? It just felt right.  
> Let me know what you think and thank you for all the support!


	4. how to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, so I figured I'd just upload it now.  
> Reactions to the last update were hilarious by the way!!! Thank you all for continuing to read. I think this may be quite a long fic, so there are plenty more cute moments to come.

Marianne stares at Héloïse’s name in her phone for some time. She paces up and down her room and finds herself sitting out on the balcony, cross-legged on the tiles. The sky is growing dark. She’s a little tired, from spending the day at Héloïse’s house again. She’s been there three times now. Every time, Sophie seems to get funnier, and Héloïse less cryptic.

Marianne has never really been nervous in her text conversations. She doesn’t wait inordinate amounts of time before responding, instead replying as soon as she gets the message. Though she has most of her notifications turned off. Her friends joke to each other about all the times Marianne leaves them on read. Which she really doesn’t mean to do; she just forgets.

Still. She takes some time trying to come up with an ordinary way to begin the conversation.

Eventually, she settles on:

M Hi! This is marianne.

She hits send and instantly regrets the full stop. But forces herself to drop the phone, and throws her hands up silently as if in surrender.

After about two minutes, Marianne is sure that she’s ruined everything. She’s about to walk off the balcony and leave her phone there, perhaps forever. But before she can stand, it buzzes. She counts to ten under her breath before picking it up.

H ???  
salut  
how did u get my number

Okay. Not a great start. Marianne can salvage this.

M Oh sophie gave it to me today lol  
I didn’t like steal ur phone and write the number down or anything lol

Oh fuck, she punctuated both texts with ‘lol’. Time to die.

H well now i think that’s exactly what u did

Marianne tries to conjure up something that will save the conversation.

H lol  
im kidding dw

By some force of magic, Marianne relaxes a little.

M You’re such a prankster wow

H i can’t believe sophie just handed over my number and didnt tell me  
i mean what if ur a stalker  
she has poor judgement

M Well unfortunately it’s true :/ I am a huge stalker  
And stalking you will be really easy seeing as we are on a tiny island

H u can’t kill me yet  
i don’t know how to swim

M Okay fine  
I’ll wait until you learn how to not drown  
How is that going for you btw?

Héloïse reads the text but doesn’t start typing or immediately respond. Marianne holds her breath, and then has to laugh at herself, one hand dragged over her face. It’s embarrassing. When she removes her hand, she sees that Héloïse has responded.

H idk if i can

M Swim?

H yea  
like at what point can i just declare oh yea i can swim now  
idk

M That’s tru  
Can you float?

H lol  
we can go to the beach tomorrow and u can see for urself

M Sounds good to me

This seems like a place where the conversation could end, but Marianne doesn’t want it to. She scrambles to think of somewhere to go from here, but instead, Héloïse swoops in.

H so weird question but do u only listen to pretentious harpsichord music or???  
anything else

Marianne cracks a smile. Out on the balcony, the air has acquired a certain chill. She stands and moves back inside, then sits gingerly on her bed.

M Oh no I strictly listen to vivaldi. Anything else is unworthy

H oh of course  
i’d expect nothing less from u

M Lol  
I mean tbh I obviously do like other music but  
I’d wayyy rather go to an orchestra than a concert

H vraiment?  
i’ve never been to a concert so  
am I not missing much?

M You’ve never been to a concert?

H or an orchestra  
i mean i’ve barely left the island my entire life  
and there’s no venue here except for like, bars  
and even then nobody ever comes

M Oh yeah, damn  
Well idk some people like concerts and they can be fun  
But a lot of the time they make me v nervous

H i can’t imagine u nervous

This elicits a real-world laugh from Marianne.

M Oh, believe it baby

Oh god. Was ‘baby’ too much? Definitely. She adds another text to pretend the last one never happened.

M I mean it’s very claustrophobic  
And there are bag checks when u come in, which I know is a good thing but like  
One time I brought water with me but I brought it in a flask bc I’m stupid  
The bag checking lady fully thought I smuggled vodka in or smth  
She ended up smelling it and then let me in but I was already so embarrassed

H oh my god  
that’s beautiful

M It was not beautiful  
I’m getting heart palpitations just thinking about it

H i don’t think that would bother me too much  
bc I wouldn’t fail to smuggle vodka in, I would succeed in doing so

M Horrible idea  
You’d get kicked out

H i’d still do it

M Why?  
Are u an alcoholic Héloïse

H oh yes  
alcohol? i’m all over it  
every day

M Very cool

H lol  
i mean really tho i think i’d just do it like  
for the thrill  
and bc I never have

M Is it on ur bucket list?  
Get kicked out of a concert for drinking, just to feel something?

H lol  
i think I’ll just start with going to a concert full stop

M There’ll be concerts in milan probably

Héloïse has read the text. She doesn’t respond for ten seconds. Marianne races to repair.

M Sorry  
That was dumb  
I just mean there’ll be good things  
But I know you prolly don’t wanna think about it  
Sorry

Héloïse is typing. Marianne is sitting, frozen, on the bed.

H k

And nothing more. But Marianne won’t let Héloïse leave her with ‘k’.

M I’ll tell u what  
I know I said I don’t like concerts v much but I think they can be good  
But from experience, u shouldn’t go alone  
I mean being alone can be good  
I go to the cinema by myself a lot  
But concerts are different bc there’s so much waiting  
All the standing around is boring but less boring with a friend  
Sorry that was a lot lol

Héloïse is typing.

H ok. when I go to my first concert, ill bring you

The grin creeps across Marianne’s face before she can stop to reel it back. For a moment, she switches off her phone and presses it to her chest. She flops back on her bed and beams at the ceiling like a madwoman.

“Everything alright?”

Marianne doesn’t sit up, because she feels that she hasn’t quite come back from Héloïse’s text. But she manages to smother her grin before twisting her head to see Pauline in her doorway. Her glasses are on a chain around her neck, and her dark eyebrows are raised in a knowing sort of manner.

Marianne nods quickly, which is difficult from her lying position.

Pauline’s eyes dart towards the phone clasped to Marianne’s chest. “Nice message?”

Marianne gets asked this by her mother a lot, back home. Often the answer is disappointing because she’s just laughing at a meme. But her reaction now is a little too telling to use that excuse. So Marianne says: “Uh. Yeah.”

She refuses to elaborate, and Pauline doesn’t make her. Simply cracks a smile and pats the door frame. “Dinner’s in five minutes.”

 _“Merci,”_ says Marianne quietly, but Pauline has already walked away. The grin returns to Marianne’s face, though with a flutter of embarrassment.

She stays there for another moment, before realising with a rush that she has left Héloïse on read. She all but jumps up, and they text for six minutes more before Pauline calls Marianne’s name up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bag check thing is a real story that happened to yours truly. That woman really thought my sixteen-year-old self was hardcore enough to sneak alcohol into a concert.


	5. how to be honest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite chapters so far :)   
> As always, hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

The beach is busy and Héloïse is disgusted.

“Why are there so many people?” she asks loudly, turning a few heads. Sophie snorts.

“Probably because it’s so nice out,” says Marianne.

Héloïse frowns but doesn’t deny it. This morning, the sky is completely blue, without a single wispy cloud hanging overhead. Marianne had wisely left her long coat at home, as the air is hot and prickly. Sophie is wearing sunglasses, though Marianne and Héloïse are left to squint all around. The sea, too, is glimmering with each lapping wave. Still cold, though, as children squeal if the water so much as brushes their ankles. Out further, there are surfers.

Héloïse is greatly displeased. “Let’s walk up further,” she says, and Marianne catches her tugging at Sophie’s arm. She keeps her arms folded while walking away, and the others follow beside her.

“Did you hear?” Sophie asks after a few moments of quiet walking, “there’s a storm forecast in the next week or two.”

“What?” Marianne blurts, and then tries to retract her surprise. “Really?”

“Apparently.”

“But it’s summer.”

Sophie shrugs. She pushes the sunglasses up her nose. “Maybe it’ll be exciting.”

“You’re always after excitement,” says Héloïse, not in a cruel manner.

As the cliffs grow taller and cast dramatic shadows, the crowds thin out. It seems like this will be the best option, so Héloïse sighs silently, out through her nose.

“Will this do, your majesty?” Sophie asks dryly.

Héloïse throws her a glare, but within it is a suppressed smile, Marianne is sure. Marianne pulls her small black backpack off and unzips it. With a flourish, she produces a picnic blanket. The girl’s eyes go wide.

“Wow, that’s perfect,” Sophie steps back so that Marianne can lay it out. “Is it yours?”

“No, my aunt’s,” says Marianne. The picnic blanket is blue like today’s sky, with white stripes. “I brought food, too. And juice.”

“No vodka?” Héloïse comments casually, and Marianne meets her eyes across the blanket. Her eyes are gleaming like the water.

Marianne shakes her head with mock despair. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Héloïse clicks her tongue, settling on the blanket with her hands splayed out flat behind her.

Sophie is still stood, eyebrows lowered in confusion. “Should I be concerned?”

“Oh, Marianne, will tell you the story?” Héloïse is smiling now.

“I will not.”

“Well, then Sophie will think you’re an alcoholic, like me!”

_“What.”_

Marianne sighs, pretending to be unamused. She explains the concert story to Sophie (who loves it) while pulling out the food she packed.

“It’s really not fair,” Marianne comments when she finishes the tale. “So far, you both know two embarrassing stories of mine. And Héloïse witnessed one in real time.”

Héloïse makes a humming sound and doesn’t deny it. She’s nibbling on a cracker, like a mouse.

They eat the picnic. Sophie packed some biscuits too. The juice is warm from Marianne’s bag, but Héloïse drinks two boxes.

Héloïse says that she wants to go into the ocean.

“I’m staying here,” says Sophie decidedly. “I might paddle later, though."

Héloïse shrugs, sitting up. She’s rooting around in her duffel bag. “Suit yourself. Marianne, would you put sunscreen on my back?”

The question comes from nowhere and momentarily knocks the wind from Marianne’s lungs. When she regains composure, she sees that Héloïse is sitting on the other side of the blanket, body half-turned towards Marianne. She’s holding a bottle of sunscreen and wears a very focused expression.

The silence drags and is noticeable, but once Marianne remembers how to use words, she splutters in. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Sophie watches very carefully from behind her sunglasses as Marianne moves on her knees over to Héloïse. Sophie sips her juice through the straw, graciously picking up her phone and pretending to be unaware. But both she and Marianne know that Héloïse could’ve instead asked Sophie, who was sat right next to her, and who she has known for more than just a few days.

 _Oh for fuck’s sake,_ Marianne thinks to herself. _It’s sunscreen. Calm down._

She takes the bottle from Héloïse and squeezes some onto her palm.

“Just, like, the gap in my swimsuit.”

“Yeah, cool.”

Héloïse is wearing a denim skirt, but not a t-shirt or anything. Instead, there’s just the top half of her swimsuit; the same black one Marianne saw her wearing the day they met. Héloïse pulls her ponytail over her shoulder, out of the way, so that Marianne can see her bare back, shoulders, and neck.

_Mon dieu. Calm down. This is fine._

Marianne starts lathering Héloïse’s back in the sunscreen. Her nervousness must be obvious to Héloïse, as she could swear her hands are shaking. She moves quickly, but can’t help but feel the imprint of Héloïse’s spine. Her shoulder blades. There are two moles there that she feels like memorizing.

“Will I do the back of your neck too?” Marianne hears herself asking in a quiet voice. “It’s the worst to get sunburnt there.”

Literally. Why. Why does she do this to herself?

“Yeah,” says Héloïse quickly. Marianne can’t see her face, but there’s something under her tone.

So, Marianne moves one trembling hand up the back of Héloïse’s neck, right to the base of her hairline. She’s holding her breath, and when she realises this, it takes her a moment to start breathing manually again.

“Okay, done,” Marianne says eventually, but her hand lingers at the base of Héloïse’s neck for a second longer than it needs to. She bites her own tongue and all but yanks her fingers away, back to her lap. Some ship sinks in Marianne’s chest, and she feels her cheeks start to pink. Another embarrassing story.

 _“Merci,”_ says Héloïse, and turns her head. Their eyes catch for a moment, but Marianne tears away. She hands the bottle back and crawls across the picnic blanket.

Héloïse stands and unbuttons her denim skirt, stepping out of it. Marianne looks pointedly at her lap until she hears Héloïse move away. When she unbends her head, the figure is walking determinedly to the shore.

Marianne looks away again, this time to Sophie. Who is staring blatantly with a barely suppressed grin.

“Stop,” Marianne says, before Sophie’s even began.

“Oh my god.”

“Literally stop. It’s nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Marianne purses her lips, and Sophie nods once in a silent sort of agreement. She balances her hands on her lap and looks out at sea. Marianne can’t help but search for Héloïse in the water, but she seems to have vanished again. As she so often does.

Some curiosity nags at Marianne. Something that has been bothering her for a few days. Actually, curiosity has been a presence in most of Marianne’s life. It often leads to her asking questions that garner narrow stares. But she can’t seem to help it.

“Sophie?”

Sophie meets her eyes. She has her sunglasses pushed back onto her head.

“You know you said that you owed me a story?”

Sophie turns herself towards Marianne. She puts her juice box down. “What do you wanna know?”

Marianne has her legs pulled up to her chest, and folds both arms across her knees. “How did Héloïse’s sister die?”

Sophie seems to have been expecting this to some degree. There isn’t much reaction in her face or eyes, not even a twitching at the corners of her mouth. But she does inhale, and glance away for what seems like a long moment.

“Her name was Suzanne,” Sophie begins, “or Suzie. She was three years older than Héloïse, so, nearly twenty when she died. We used to all hang out a lot and go into town and things, but her and Héloïse’s relationship was always a bit weird. And then in the year before, Suzie got really distant. I figured it was just because she didn’t want to hang out with a fourteen year old and sixteen year old. Héloïse was pretty mad about that.”

“I can imagine.”

Sophie nearly smiles. “There was a lot of… like, it’s…”

She grimaces. “I can’t say that much because it’s very complicated. Héloïse’s mother’s side of the family is really traditional and stuff, and they wanted certain stuff for Suzie that she really didn’t want. And she had a boyfriend, too, who was really… not great. We didn’t find out about him until after.”

The distant use of ‘before’ and ‘after’ seems a little telling to Marianne, as well as the picture all this context is painting. But she sits and waits for the conclusion.

Sophie stills for a moment. Her mouth opens and closes a few times. Then she turns, and points to the overhanging cliffs. “She jumped off there,” Sophie says, “Maybe six months ago.”

She turns back around, and waits again, as if trying to decide on something. “I found her.”

Marianne’s eyes peel further open. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

It’s difficult to think of anything else to say. Sophie’s eyes, in this moment, seem swollen with sadness. But not the kind of sadness that pours with grating sobs. Just the quiet, knowing kind.

“She left Héloïse a letter,” Sophie explains further. “She didn’t have one for anybody else. And Héloïse won’t let anyone see it. I don’t even know if she still has it, she might’ve burned it. But whatever was in it sort of fucked her up.”

More silence.

“She’s very angry,” Sophie near-whispers. “But she was kind of angry beforehand too. She’s just like that.”

Marianne doesn’t know what to say.

“Thanks for telling me,” she settles on. She feels some heavy guilt bobbing in her throat, for even inquiring in the first place. But some part of her feels that saying: ‘sorry for asking’ wouldn’t sound right.

Sophie stirs. “It’s good to talk about, actually.”

“Well, you can always talk to me about it. Or about anything.”

Sophie smiles. “Thanks,” she utters, so quietly that her words are nearly consumed by the sound of the ocean. And then, louder: “Do you want more of the biscuits? Because the chocolate is already melting a bit, so…”

They talk about biscuits for a little more, and then move onto some other subject entirely. After some time, Marianne, who is now lying on her stomach, catches sight of a tall figure approaching them. Héloïse is soaked and shivering, hair torn from her ponytail and now stuck to her neck and shoulders. She casts a long shadow across the sand as she emerges, and has both hands planted on the back of her neck. Marianne feels something start in her chest at the sight of Héloïse like this, and wonders how she managed to stare at her for so long without collapsing when they met for the first time.

Héloïse sits down on the blanket and grabs her towel from where she laid it out earlier. She wraps it around herself, across her shoulders. Nobody says anything at first.

Then Héloïse turns to face Marianne. “So?” she asks, and when Marianne returns a perplexed, squinty stare, Héloïse elaborates. “Did you see me swimming?”

“Oh. I actually couldn’t see you all that well from here.”

“Hm,” Héloïse sounds like she suspected this already, “You’ll have to actually come in with me next time, and tell me there.”

Sophie snorts with her back to the both of them.

Héloïse’s head whips her head towards her cousin, a clump of wet hair sticking to her chin. _“Quoi?”_

“Nothing,” Sophie is quick in response. She clears her throat and stands up. Her dress is shapeless and flowery, and she holds the hem of it so it doesn’t catch in the breeze. “I’m gonna track down that ice-cream stall we saw earlier.”

Neither girl volunteers to join her. As Sophie walks off, she casts both Marianne and Héloïse a squinty, observant sort of look before trekking her way across the sand.

There’s a short silence, interrupted by Héloïse: “Was she trying to give that look to you or to me?”

“I don’t know,” admits Marianne. “It wasn’t very subtle.”

Another pause. These quiet passings between them have slowly grown more comfortable. Marianne is absentmindedly drawing a pattern in the sand when Héloïse punctures the illusion.

“Has she told you about Suzie yet?”

When Marianne looks up, Héloïse’s eyes are hard. She’s letting the grey towel fall loosely over her shoulders, and her hands sit clasped in her lap. Marianne feels that Héloïse’s stare can see all the way to the back of her skull, so there’s no point in lying. “Yeah. Just now, actually.”

Héloïse’s eyelids flutter. Despite her sandy hair, her eyelashes are the same dark colour as her eyebrows. She turns away from Marianne, glaring at the waves. The sun is making her glow. “Sophie can’t go long without telling people things. She’s a terrible liar.”

There’s no malice in her words, exactly, just a kind of resignation. But Marianne still corrects her: “Well, she didn’t just tell me. I asked her.”

Héloïse turns to face her again, and Marianne realises what she might have done. “Oh,” is all she says. Her posture has stiffened.

“Sorry,” Marianne says. She crosses her ankles behind her, left over right. “Is that really awful?”

Héloïse doesn’t respond for a moment, as if she’s contemplating whether or not it is an awful thing. “No,” she settles on, and meets Marianne’s eyes again. “I admire your honesty.”

Still. Héloïse’s eyebrows are snapped together, and her nostrils flare. “Are you angry with me?” Marianne asks.

To her surprise, Héloïse shakes her head. “Not just you. I’m angry at most things.”

A quiet smile breaks out on Marianne’s face. “That’s really edgy,” she comments.

Héloïse’s eyes grow wide, and for a moment it’s difficult to tell exactly what her reaction is. But then, she brightens all at once, and puffs out a laugh like smoke. Marianne learns now, that when Héloïse laughs, she rocks with it. She moves back and forth, and teeth appear and disappear from her smile. She’s biting down on her bottom lip. Marianne is grinning too, but she forces herself to look away, back to the sandy picnic blanket.

Héloïse soon draws her back. “There,” she says, lightness returned to her tone. “That’s what I mean.”

“What?” Marianne looks at Héloïse again, who is still smiling softly, in an almost undetectable way.

Héloïse waits a moment. She releases her bottom lip. “You’re very honest,” she elaborates, slowly. “And you’re not afraid to say things. “

Marianne is unconvinced. “Doesn’t that make me awkward?”

Héloïse grins again, and Marianne relishes in the sight. “Yes. But it’s endearing.”

Marianne folds her arms in front of her, and lays down her chin so that she is entirely stretched across the mat. “You seem honest too,” she tells Héloïse.

Héloïse shrugs, and pulls some wet hair from where it’s stuck to her cheek. “Yes, but I’m only blunt to annoy people. And I’m selective about it, I think.” She hesitates, dropping her hand back to her lap. Marianne watches her gaze flicker, for a moment, down Marianne’s body laid out across the blanket. But before she has a chance to comprehend that, Héloïse’s eyes land back on her face. “Say something else.”

Marianne’s eyebrows shoot up, smiling again. Her cheeks will be sore from it later today. “What else?”

Héloïse grins, and tilts her head in an incredibly slight manner. “Something you probably shouldn’t say.”

Marianne considers this. Slowly, she pulls herself up from her sitting position, and doesn’t look at Héloïse as she does so, but still feels her dragging gaze. When she’s kneeling on the picnic blanket and squinting out to sea, she says: “When I had my first kiss, I wanted to throw up.”

Marianne hears Héloïse’s reaction before she sees it. The laughter seems to burst from her. When Marianne turns, Héloïse is reeling backwards with an open mouth. Her pale stare is gleaming with total delight. Marianne loves that she doesn’t cover her smile. “Was it so bad?” she manages eventually.

“He tasted like an ashtray,” Marianne confesses, and scrunches up her face with the memory of it. “I thought I was going to puke into his mouth.” She starts laughing too, hunching her shoulders. When they’ve recovered a little, Marianne splutters out: “Okay, now your turn.”

Héloïse’s eyebrows shoot up. “My turn?”

“Yes! It’s only fair. Go on.”

Héloïse does not seem pleased at the idea, scrunching up her nose. Still, she seems to have something prepared. “I’ve never tried alcohol. Not even wine. I don’t want to, I’m perfectly happy with… juice and water. I know it’s not very adult, but…”

Marianne is beaming. “So you’re not an alcoholic? I’m devastated.”

“Isn’t being an alcoholic a state of mind?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No?” Héloïse is creasing up with her giggling, rubbing at one of her arms. She turns away for only a second before whirling around again. This time, turning with her whole body. “Say something else. About me, this time.”

Marianne hesitates, and then positions herself towards Héloïse in turn. They stare at each other for a moment, seemingly solemn, and the whole time Marianne is trying to look into the back of Héloïse’s head. She carefully studies the words in her mouth before allowing them to escape. “I think it’s weird that you’ve lived by the sea all your life and never learned to swim,” she says blatantly, and Héloïse has no facial reaction. She doesn’t even stir. So, for good measure, Marianne adds: “And I think your airpods are ridiculous.”

This cracks Héloïse. She keeps her mouth shut, but the laugh escapes through her nose. She shudders with it, or maybe with the cold water still lingering on her face and dripping from her hair. And then, as Héloïse turns away, she opens her smile into a grin, shaking her head. Her face has gone pink.

Marianne can’t stop herself. “And I really like your laugh.”

So far, Héloïse’s surprise has seemed rather contained. But this instance takes her over. She shoots up, back straightened, and rounds on Marianne. Her mouth remains shut, but her eyes are popping out of her head. Her eyelids flutter about, but she keeps her gaze firmly on Marianne. When she does open her mouth, she pulls in her bottom lip and keeps it there. She looks flushed, and entirely pleased.

When Sophie comes back, she asks what they’re staring at each other for. When they both brush it off and change the conversation topic, Sophie allows it, but keeps her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she licks the sprinkles from her ice-cream.


	6. how to do nothing

When Marianne goes over to Héloïse’s house, something that’s slowly becoming more of a usual thing, Sophie answers the door with a quiet expression.

“She’s having a bad day,” is all she says.

Marianne doesn’t know the intricacies of what this means, but nonetheless something crumples in her chest. “Should I go?”

Sophie shakes her head with such violence that it nearly goes flying off her shoulders. “No! Definitely not. Come in.”

As they climb the stairs, Sophie explains. “Héloïse needs people on bad days. She’d never admit it, but I know it’s true. She always asks me to come over, and then we don’t do anything. It’s just about having someone to do nothing with.”

Marianne thinks she understands. Not from a personal place, though. When she’s been mad or upset, she feels the need to garner total isolation. She locks herself in her room until the feeling fizzles. Recently, before she came here, Marianne’s mother sometimes left a plate of dinner outside her door while she was fuming. And when she’d come downstairs later in the evening, they wouldn’t talk about it. But if this is what Héloïse needs, then Marianne is surprisingly willing to co-operate.

The house feels particularly large and ghostly this afternoon. No sign of Héloïse’s mother. She seems to come and go rather often, maybe to distant corners or somewhere else entirely. A semblance of her presence is always felt in the sitting room, where she looms in a frame over the fireplace. Though Marianne has sort of been avoiding that room. The portrait unnerves her more than she cares to admit.

Sophie stops at the top of a corridor and turns to face Marianne. “I sort of have to go home in like half an hour,” she admits, “so I understand if you want to leave with me. It might be boring, just sitting around doing nothing.”

Marianne shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine. And anyway,” she pats her satchel, which hangs low, by her thigh. “I brought a sketchpad with me.”

Sophie’s eyes widen. “You draw?”

“Did I not mention that?”

“No! That’s cool. Are you an artist, then?”

Marianne opens her mouth and then shuts it again. “I suppose.”

Sophie narrows her eyes. “You suppose?”

“It’s more complicated than you might think.”

“That sounds like an artist thing to say,” Sophie raises her eyebrows, but then her light expression fizzles out. “I don’t want to, like. Force you to get involved with family stuff. Or fill a place or anything. So there’s no pressure.”

“I know. I don’t feel pressurized.”

Sophie blinks once, slowly. “Somehow I believe that when you say it.”

She hesitates, and then turns again, leading Marianne to a familiar door. This time, there’s no ‘Do not disturb, bitch’ sign on the handle. Sophie knocks and then goes in without waiting for a response.

Héloïse is draped across the daybed in the corner. Her hair is loose and tangled all over the white sheets, which are torn up all around her. In her hands, propped up on her chest, is a book. Héloïse’s head moves slowly towards the opening door. Her expression betrays nothing, as usual, though her gaze does linger on Marianne.

 _“Salut,”_ she says quietly. Marianne and Sophie return the greeting. Héloïse turns immediately back to her book and stares at the pages with half-lidded, unmoving eyes.

Sophie also says nothing and moves over to sit down in front of the bed, not on it. Marianne joins her, and leans against the wall, near Héloïse’s head. Sophie pulls out her phone and starts scrolling absent-mindedly.

There is some inherent awareness in the air that something has become off with Marianne’s arrival. This is clearly a usual sort of occurrence for the household, and an unspoken one. Marianne is new to this. But she is determined to make it comfortable, as if she’s not here at all.

She pulls out her sketchbook and pencil (and an eraser, this time). For half an hour, she starts and finishes, and pages through her old, unfinished works. And then Sophie stands up, marking the passage of time.

“I’ve got to go,” she says and turns to look at Héloïse, still on the bed. “Text me later.”

Héloïse nods, barely noticeable. But then, she reaches out with two fingers towards Sophie. Sophie quickly takes them in her own small hand, delivering a reassuring squeeze. And then Héloïse drops the grasp, and withdraws to her book. Sophie says goodbye to Marianne and leaves them both in the room. Marianne listens as the sound of her footsteps fade away.

Marianne tries to sketch again and also tries to not feel strange about this situation. She fails at both. Héloïse captures her attention, even from where she lies, very still on the bed with the book in her hands.

Every instance of being alone with Héloïse has been wildly different. From the intensity of their first meeting to the awkwardness of their second. And then yesterday on the beach had seemed like such a turning point. Marianne had been floating since then, and even Pauline noticed. But right now she feels immensely grounded.

She finds herself staring at the book Héloïse is reading. Marianne didn’t catch sight of the cover, and can’t make out the words from here. She didn’t know that Héloïse was a reader. Or does she only pick up books on bad days? Thinking about it now, has Héloïse even turned the page once since Marianne arrived? Her head spins at the thought.

Marianne starts to wonder, seemingly out of nowhere, what Héloïse’s face would look like while she is reading a sex scene. Would it be obvious? Marianne has mastered her poker face for all situations, but sometimes she would read something like that, that might make her squirm or smile or flush red. But would Héloïse do the same? Marianne can imagine, suddenly, her pink mouth open and her eyes wide. Or maybe, after years of reading, Héloïse has trained herself out of such expressions. So that no one would ever know, and it would look no different from the way she read a scene where someone was doing the washing.

Marianne didn’t realise until this moment, just how desperately she wants to know things like this about Héloïse. Little things, that would likely never come up in conversation and never be confided, not even to the closest of friends. This epiphany embarrasses her greatly and she puts her flushed face down to the blank pages of her sketchbook. _Merde,_ she thinks, _I’m so awful to think about things like that. And while she’s having a bad day! Imagine if she knew what you were thinking, Marianne._

She sounds like her mother. Though her mother would never know that she thought things like this. No one ever would. It didn’t seem like a secret she would ever care to tell.

Minutes of total silence pass. Marianne picks up her pencil, and shuts her eyes to try and conjure something. But all she can imagine is Héloïse’s face gone red before the pages of a book.

 _Holy shit. Why are you like this? What the fuck._ Marianne is close to sinking into the floorboards. She tries, desperately, to focus on anything else.

Even in the expansive room, Marianne only sees Héloïse. But at least this Héloïse is only lying on the daybed and reading. Marianne can’t see much of her face or reactions. Only the back of her head, and her body lying tangled across the sheets.

Without even thinking about it, Marianne begins to sketch her. Her mind feels blank as she does it, like it was the obvious thing to do this whole time. She captures Héloïse’s head and shoulders. Her long figure and folded legs. The way her t-shirt is bunched up around her hips. Her sharp elbows and the fingers in-between pages of her book. The bed that surrounds her.

Marianne draws like this, mindlessly, for some time. She’s onto the shading when Héloïse breaks the silence.

“There ain’t no way you can hold onto something that wants to go,” says Héloïse is a far-away voice. It takes Marianne only a moment to realise that she’s reading from the book. “You understand? You can only love what you got while you got it.”

It felt almost as if Héloïse was telling this directly to her. She read it in English, but Marianne can understand. Héloïse lets the book drop flat on her chest, and Marianne sees something shiny slide down her cheek.

“This is Suzie’s book,” she explains after another long, quiet pause, in French again. Her voice is deep and soft, like a pile of feather-stuffed pillows. “It’s very American. She was much better at English than I am, but I’m learning.”

Marianne doesn’t exactly know if she should start talking now. She waits, and Héloïse just stays where she is, unmoving, as though she had never spoken at all.

And then, with a flourish, Héloïse moves her head to look around at Marianne. Her eyes are a little glassy, but aside from that, her face is static. She fixates instantly on the sketchpad in Marianne’s hands. “Were you drawing me?”

Marianne could easily say that, no, she was sketching the harpsichord or the window, or just drawing from her head. But she’s not going to. It would feel deathly wrong to lie to Héloïse. “Yeah.”

Héloïse looks back up at Marianne. She slides the book up to her chin. “Can I see?”

Marianne stands up on stiff legs, because she can’t find a reason to tell Héloïse no. She walks over as Héloïse sits up, and takes the sketchbook from Marianne’s outstretched hands. Strands of hair fall past Héloïse’s face as she bends her head to inspect the drawing. Marianne finds herself standing incredibly still, maybe to a fault.

Héloïse holds the sketchpad like it’s something precious. She takes a long, quiet moment to look over the drawing. Marianne is dead terrified that she’s going to start flicking through the pages.

She doesn’t. Instead, Héloïse shifts her position, moving back on the daybed. “You need a better angle. Come, sit up here.”

She gestures at the bed around her. Marianne is more perplexed by this invitation than she probably should be. At this point, why should she keep having expectations when it comes to Héloïse? She always subverts them with every action and turn of phrase. Héloïse looks up at Marianne when she continues to stand still, and meets her eyes. The shininess has vanished, though there’s still the remnants of a rolling tear on her right cheek. “Come,” she says simply.

Marianne moves, crawling around Héloïse to the corner of the daybed. Héloïse gives Marianne the sketchpad and picks up the book from where it fell off her chest, opening it on an entirely different page, somewhere at the beginning. Marianne begins to smile as Héloïse carefully arranges herself, and when their eyes meet again, she stirs.

 _“Quoi?”_ asks Héloïse.

“I didn’t know you were a model,” Marianne responds softly.

To her relief, a wisp of a smile crosses Héloïse’s face. She doesn’t respond but keeps a lightness in her expression while Marianne sketches her. Marianne sees her start to turn the pages.

\--

Later, Marianne paints with watercolours in her room. She’s filling in some of the sketches she made of Héloïse with the balcony doors open into the night sky. And it’s only during the process that she realises these are the first sketches she’s finished and been happy with in a long, long while.

 _That’s a little telling, isn’t it?_ Is what her father would say. And probably what Pauline would say too.

She chooses not to read into it. But finds that the colours of Héloïse come easily to her, and that she knows the exact shade of her skin and hair. She doesn’t read into that either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Héloïse reads from is 'Because of Winn-Dixie' by Kate DiCamillo. Yes, it's a children's book, I know!!! But her writing is always stunning, I would recommend her books no matter your age.


	7. how to interpret dreams

Marianne takes a nap in the afternoon the next day. Something she probably hasn’t done since she was a toddler. But after a day of helping Pauline clear out her shed (which took far longer than either of them thought it would) Marianne’s bed has never felt so comfortable. She sinks right through the mattress.

\--

On the other side, Marianne stands knee-deep in the sea. But not near the shore. She turns around and around, but for miles onwards there’s only ocean. The sky above her is white and textured like the paper in her sketchbook.

Somehow, out of the water before her emerges Héloïse, like a seal. She only appears up to her shoulders, despite the water remaining shallow for Marianne. Héloïse pushes her wet hair out of her face and tilts back. Eyes meet. She smiles slowly, lazily, like they have all the time in the world. Her eyes are half-moons.

“Marianne,” she says. Her voice sounds far away. “I learned how to swim.”

“Really?” Marianne responds. “That’s great.”

“Also, Pauline invited you to move in. So you can stay here. And maman changed her mind,” she adds. Behind her, the sky is dyed with a splash of pink. It spreads like watercolour. At the same time, Héloïse’s eyes grow large, and her smile becomes shy. Her words are spoken lovingly. “I’m not going to Milan.”

Marianne doesn’t question it at all this time. The sky is blossoming with more and more colour, and she feels it in her chest. Bursts of paint across the page, and blooming flowers. A garden entwining her ribs.

Héloïse’s arm emerges from the water, dripping with the weight of the ocean. “Come with me,” she says.

Marianne knows she would go anywhere Héloïse asked her to. She gives her hand over without consideration, and Héloïse tugs her into the water. When they go under, it’s inky black and endlessly warm. Like an enormous pair of enveloping arms.

\--

Marianne’s eyes flicker open, heavy with sleep. Outside, the sky is turning lilac.

When she takes a shower, Marianne imagines that her own hands are Héloïse’s, and runs them through her wet hair.

\--

S omg héloïse won’t shut up about u!!!!! i stg

Marianne blinks at her phone screen, not taking Sophie’s message in. She’s sat at the table downstairs, and her hair is dripping down her shoulders. There’s movement in the kitchen but it feels like background noise.

M ?  
Context?

S tbh context is unnecessary.  
she talks about u at every interval!!!

The very idea sets something aflutter in Marianne’s stomach. She pictures wet-faced Héloïse and her extended arm. Her shining eyes when she said: _“I’m not going to Milan.”_ In the moment, it felt devastatingly real, and Marianne gave her whole heart over when she took Héloïse’s hand.

But it was a dream. She inhales through her nose.

M Why tho

S ?????  
bc she likes u!!  
obviously

Marianne’s cheeks are flushed. She plants a hand on her forehead and hunches over her phone.

M Okay but are u sure

S asjsdfddlkgshfh  
OUI je suis certain!!!!!

M Is Heloise having a convo with u right now and ur just texting me? That seems rude

S okay 1. She is in the bathroom 2. Don’t change the subject you fool!!!!

M Oh I’ve changed it  
The subject is changed  
In fact I’m being called for dinner rn so bye!

S Marianne I stg

Marianne is not being called to dinner. Pauline is milling around the kitchen. Still, she puts her phone face-down on the table and tries to distract herself from imagining that across the way at the chateau, Héloïse is talking about her.

“Pauline?” she twists in her chair.

Pauline looks over her shoulder. She has her dark hair in a bun, and a large grey t-shirt with something written in a language Marianne doesn’t understand.

“Could my friends come over tomorrow?” Marianne asks. “Just for a little, and then we’ll go into the village.”

Pauline faces Marianne and leans against the counter. Her eyebrows are raised. “Is this Héloïse?”

“And Sophie,” Marianne adds. Pauline nods.

“Of course, that’s fine.” A sly smile crawls across her cheeks. “You like Héloïse?”

Marianne hesitates. It’s a simple question. Surely Pauline means nothing by it. “Yes,” she says dumbly, and feels her face grow hot at the admittance. She turns away, back to her phone, still lying face-down on the table. “She’s… very nice.”

That seems like both an understatement and an overstatement. Is Héloïse nice? Not particularly. Nice is surface level and easy. Héloïse is so much more. She is bold, surprising. And stunning. Not that Marianne would say any of this to Pauline.

Pauline’s knowing smile remains on her face, but she says nothing about Héloïse as they eat. Though even as the conversation carries elsewhere, Marianne feels a question rise to her tongue.

“Um,” she begins, which is not a great start. She punctures a piece of breaded chicken with her fork. “Do you know much about dreams?”

The shift in conversation seems obvious to Marianne, but Pauline doesn’t seem to notice. “I read a book on the subject once, but I’m not an expert. Why do you ask?”

Marianne tries to shape the words before she speaks them, but the question still sounds clunky coming from her mouth. “What does it… what would it mean if you had a dream about someone? Not just a dream with someone in it. Like, a dream _about_ the person.”

When she looks up, Pauline’s eyes are narrowed. She knows instantly. There’s no hiding from this woman. “What was happening in the dream?”

“This is a hypothetical question.”

Pauline makes a soundless sort of laugh, and Marianne gives in. She explains the dream to her aunt, but conveniently leaves out both who the person in the water was and the emotional reaction Marianne has been having to it.

When she finishes, Pauline’s eyes are narrowed behind her glasses again. “Why didn’t you just google this?”

“Is that your answer?” Marianne’s exasperation leaks through, eliciting a bark-like laugh from Pauline, who shakes her head.

“Okay, I’ll give it a shot,” she swallows a spoonful of rice and ponders Marianne’s dream for a few seconds longer. “Have you been painting again?”

Marianne nods Her mouth is full of peas.

“That could explain the sky part of it. As for the… person,” Pauline raises her eyebrows, and Marianne purses her lips. “Were you thinking about them before you went to sleep?”

Marianne is very quickly regretting her question. She hovers there for a moment with Pauline awaiting an answer and then stumbles out with: “Um. No. I don’t think so. Maybe?”

It’s true that she isn’t sure. Pauline waits again, shoveling a spoonful of yellow rice into her mouth. She swallows, ponders. “Have you been thinking about them a lot? In general?”

Well. This wasn’t something Marianne had considered at all until now. Maybe had Pauline asked her a few days ago she would have said no. But it’s true that she finds herself replaying conversations with Héloïse, and inventing new ones. Conjuring static images of her, sometimes memories, sometimes flown from her imagination. Earlier while clearing out Pauline’s shed, she had replayed this smile Héloïse made the other day, where her eyes crinkled up and she tried to force her mouth shut but failed. Marianne had thought about that smile alone for maybe half an hour.

So, she supposes it could be true that she’s been thinking about Héloïse a lot. And maybe Marianne thought of her while she drifted off to sleep. It’s all possible.

Marianne realises that she hasn’t answered her aunt’s question, and has instead been sat there with far-away eyes, twirling a fork between her fingers. She jerks her head up, embarrassment flush on her face.

Pauline’s bushy eyebrows are raised. “I’ll take that a yes?”

Marianne says nothing again. She might have lost her voice. She decides to swallow any words of protest that may battle their way forward, and instead ducks down to her plate. Maybe Marianne doesn’t need a dream interpretation at all and simply wants to talk about Héloïse. The same way Héloïse is talking to Sophie about Marianne. Her mind begins to trail off that way.

Pauline’s stare lingers. The fork remains still in her hand. “That family is complicated, you know.”

Marianne swallows a piece of chicken. She doesn’t have to ask who Pauline is referring to. “Yes, I know,” she says, though she’s not sure if she really does.

More quiet.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Marianne blurts, looking at her plate. “I’m only here for like, another week or something. And she’s moving at the end of the summer. So we’ll probably never see each other again, after this.”

She’s telling it to herself more than she is to Pauline. Pauline seems to understand, and carries on as if Marianne never admitted anything at all.

\--

In the night, Marianne shuts her eyes and hopes for Héloïse again. But her dreams are only full of lovely dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore writing dream sequences. I know lots of people find them boring, but I find them so fun. I don't know what it is!  
> Short chapter, I know. Next one will be much longer :)


	8. how to trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Gay Panic, the chapter.

When the doorbell buzzes in the morning, Marianne runs through the house and nearly slips going down the stairs. Across the room, Pauline’s head unbends, and Marianne quickly gathers herself and tries to walk like a normal person. Pauline says nothing, but seems to be suppressing laughter. When she gets to the door, Marianne calms herself. There’s no need to worry. Sophie will be there too.

Except, when she opens the door, Sophie is not there. Héloïse is, wearing her hair back as usual, along with a big white t-shirt tucked into her trousers, which has a faded picture of Velma from scooby-doo saying: _“Jinkies!”_

Everything about this is instantly perplexing to Marianne. She manages to splutter a quick: “Hello.”

“Hello,” says Héloïse. She has her hands clasped before her. “Sophie got delayed.”

“Oh.”

“She’ll be here soon.”

“Okay,” Marianne nods, and then remembers herself. She smiles in a jittery sort of way, and looks at the floor as she steps aside to let Héloïse in. “Come in…”

Héloïse walks in. She looks around at the decorated hallway and the bookshelves that adorn the walls.

“This way,” Marianne beckons as she walks down the short corridor towards the sitting room, where the stairs will lead them to her room. Héloïse follows dutifully, and Marianne tries to calm down.

But when they emerge into the sitting room, Pauline stands up from an armchair and smiles. “Héloïse, nice to have you here,” she says, extending a hand.

Héloïse takes it and nods, her eyes still darting all around the room. “Thank you for having me. I like your house.”

“Well, _merci,”_ Pauline’s eyebrows go up, and she drops the handshake.

“You have lots of books.”

“I’m a big reader,” Pauline glances at Marianne for a millisecond. She seems amused. “Are you?”

“A reader?” Héloïse shrugs, “when I have the time. And I only read good books.”

Pauline laughs, tilting backwards. Marianne’s eyes move back and forth between them like a pendulum.

“Ah, well, if you ever need a recommendation, I’m here,” Pauline gestures towards the stairs. “I’m sure Marianne wants to whisk you away. I’ll see you both later.”

As Héloïse turns towards the stairs, Pauline shoots Marianne a bright kind of expression. Marianne doesn’t know how to react to that, and is still frazzled by being sprung with a visit from a solo Héloïse. So, she simply moves away and follows Héloïse upstairs.

The door to her room is open at the end of the hallway, and Héloïse seems guided towards it. Marianne, having given no directions, watches from behind as Héloïse slowly enters the room, hands now loose at her sides. She touches the doorframe lightly before wandering in, and her shoes make no noise on the floorboards. Maybe she’s a ghost, or an apparition. To Marianne, Héloïse certainly seems otherworldly.

Héloïse turns slowly, like a dancer, in the middle of the room. Marianne walks in slowly. She sits gingerly on the bed. This seems to break Héloïse’s illusion, and she notices Marianne again. Some soft smile spreads on her face. She joins her hands together. “I like it here.”

Marianne nods but doesn’t know what else to say. Héloïse blinks at her a few times, and loses the smile abruptly. She starts looking at the abstract paintings on the wall, bought by Pauline some decade ago. There’s a draining in Marianne’s throat. In this moment, she’s trying to remember why she thought that Héloïse could feel something for her, and can’t seem to manage it. All the exciting possibilities she drummed up last night and a few days ago are trickling away like rainwater. This happens, where sometimes, Héloïse will give her a look (like the bright-faced grin on the beach) or tell her something (that she wants Marianne to join her when she attends a concert) or _do_ something (kiss her on both cheeks – no, Marianne is _not_ over that) that could so easily read as a show of feelings.  
But then, Marianne does a double-take, and Héloïse’s eyes are normal when they meet, and she speaks to Marianne the same way she speaks to Sophie. And when Marianne thinks back on it, the sunscreen thing could have been normal. The kiss on both cheeks might’ve only seemed tender because Héloïse felt awkward. The looks, in Marianne’s memory, come up blank or even irritated.

Right now, Marianne feels like sinking through the floor for even chancing the idea that Héloïse might feel the same way. Even though Marianne isn’t even sure how she feels. She’s had crushes before, but this is something different. All her crushes diminished quickly, something easily gotten over. She met a girl when on holiday at age thirteen, who quickly revealed herself to be straight after Marianne started to hope. She cried for one night and woke up thinking nothing more than: “That was embarrassing.” She had several questionable dreams about her geography teacher, who then went on maternity leave, and Marianne quickly forgot about her too. She kissed an American girl at a party some months ago on a dare, and never saw her again. The feelings always fizzle, the same way dreams tend to do in the first five minutes of a morning.

But Marianne’s feelings for Héloïse are not ebbing away. And what she believes to be the truth at this moment (that Héloïse is another straight girl) seems oddly painful, like a screwdriver twisting itself into her heart. She wants to curl up on the floor.

But she can’t. Héloïse is still here, and she should probably make conversation and struggle along with her feelings until Sophie arrives.

“I like your t-shirt,” Marianne says off-handedly, even though Héloïse isn’t facing her.

Héloïse turns around, and glances down at herself. “Thank you,” she says, and meets Marianne’s eyes in a fleeting manner. “Velma is a gay icon.”

Marianne has just been hit by a figurative truck. It’s a miracle that she stays upright. As soon as the words leave Héloïse’s lips, they seem to bounce around the room like an echo.

A gay icon. Is that a thing straight people say so casually? Is that something anybody would just bring into conversation? And if Velma is a gay icon, then why is Héloïse wearing a gay icon on her shirt?

Marianne abruptly realises that she’s been sat silently for a few seconds too long, with her mouth open and eyebrows raised so far that they’ve nearly flown off her forehead. She forces her mouth shut and then forms a sentence, never once moving her gaze from Héloïse’s blank face. “Is she?”

Héloïse’s head draws back, and she frowns. “Of course!”

“I didn’t watch a lot of scooby-doo, I’ll be honest.”

“So you’re uncultured, just say it like that.”

“Well, I still _saw_ it, I just don’t remember it that well,” Marianne nearly laughs, but her voice is still shaking, and she’s racing to decipher every sentence spoken by Héloïse. “And the movies were disasters.”

Héloïse’s mouth falls open for a flash, and then she’s composed again, arms folded. “They were not. _You’re_ a disaster.”

At this point, she’s not wrong. Marianne pushes on regardless. “The CGI was horrific.”

“They were masterpieces of cinema.”

“I think they were sexist?”

“More like _sexy.”_

“Stop,” Marianne is laughing properly now, one hand on her chest as she leans backwards. When she re-aligns herself, Héloïse’s frown has dropped, and her shoulders have relaxed. She’s biting back amusement, but Marianne still sees it shimmer in her ever-watching eyes.

They look at each other for a moment, and then Héloïse looks away, turning towards the two doors. She stares at them for a second, and then drops both hands to her sides, leaning forward a little. “Is that a balcony?” she asks, astonished.

Marianne is taken aback by her sudden enthusiasm. “Yeah.”

Héloïse glances back and forth between Marianne and the doors. “Can we go onto it?” she asks, already walking forward. The wonder is her voice makes her sound like a child.

Marianne has to help her open the door, as it’s old and the handle needs to be fiddled with a bit sometimes. When both of the doors swing outwards, Héloïse’s face glows like a day in June. She walks right out onto the balcony and marvels at the view. There’s a breeze out today, but Héloïse doesn’t seem to feel the cold on her bare arms. She grips at the railing and stares like a nonbeliever proven wrong.

Slowly, Marianne walks up to join her. She has never seen Héloïse like this and doesn’t want to spoil it. But when their eyes meet, Héloïse’s smile only grows. She bites down on her bottom lip and looks away again, and Marianne does the same. But she’s very aware that they are stood right beside each other, and that Héloïse’s hand is right there.

Before she can even consider making a move, the breeze picks up and blows hair into Marianne’s face. She spits the dark strands from her mouth, and as she’s picking it from her eyes she hears Héloïse’s breathy laugh. Marianne shakes her head and throws her unbrushed locks back over her shoulder. “I hate long hair,” she says, and then quickly adds: “I mean, on myself. It looks great on you. Or, it looks normal on you.”

Wow. If there was a moment, it’s gone. But Héloïse doesn’t appear deterred. Her eyes swim about on Marianne’s face, and then she suggests: “We should cut it.”

Marianne splutters a laugh. “What, now?”

Héloïse shrugs. The balcony brought something out of her. “Do you have scissors?”

\--

It’s ridiculous how quick it all happens. After googling ‘how to cut hair at home’ and watching two minutes of a YouTube video, Marianne stands in the small grey bathroom, barefoot on a towel. Her hair is divided into pigtails, one on either side, and she’s staring in the mirror. Behind her, Héloïse shifts from foot to foot.

Marianne can’t help but let out a burst of laughter. She watches through the mirror as Héloïse glances up in alarm. There’s a sun-box streaming through the Velux window, and it half-catches Héloïse’s face and hair.

 _“Quoi?”_ she asks. She turns her full body towards Marianne, revealing the scissors gripped in her hand.

“Just…” Marianne puts a delicate hand to her own smiling face. “This is going to go badly.”

“It’s not! Short hair will suit you,” Héloïse steps forward, meeting Marianne’s eyes in the mirror. “Trust me.”

As soon as she says it, Marianne knows that she does. The clarity washes over her, and she relaxes her shoulders. “Okay,” she says, but she wants to say: _I trust you._ She wants to say it again and again and again.

Héloïse nods in return, and then her stare drifts to Marianne’s right pigtail. She hesitates, and says: “Do I just do it?”

Marianne splutters. “I thought you said to trust you!”

“You should, this will go great!” but Héloïse is wringing her hand (the one that isn’t holding the scissors). “I just – I’m considering…”

“Just cut it!”

Héloïse emits a yelp like a dog, and in a flourish, she takes the dark pigtail and goes to cut it above the hair tie, very near to the nape of Marianne’s neck. In the mirror, Marianne’s mouth falls open in a silent scream, and Héloïse’s face rushes through the five stages of grief. And then, after several seconds of unbearable tension, half of Marianne’s hair hits the floor.

Both girls instantly start shrieking. Héloïse gapes and then throws a hand over her mouth, staggering back into the sink. After Marianne stops yelling, she also covers half her face and stares in disbelief at her reflection. She meets Héloïse’s wide eyes in the mirror and starts spluttering with laughter.

“Come on, do the second one!” Marianne thrills, waving her hands around.

“No, no, I can’t bear it!” Héloïse is laughing too, but also cringing away like she’s trying to crawl into the sink and disappear down the drain.

“Just do it, get it over with!”

Héloïse makes a muffled sort of cry into her fingers, and then pushes away from the other side of the room. She moves quickly over and leans in so close that for just a second, Marianne feels Héloïse’s breath on her neck. This distracts her immensely, but she’s brought back when Héloïse jumps away again, shaking her head. “I can’t, I can’t!”

Marianne lets out a strangled sound. She whirls around and pries the scissors from Héloïse’s grip. Before she can even ask herself what she’s doing, Marianne is sawing through. The second pigtail hits the floor, and as if by magic, Marianne has short hair.

They cry out again. Marianne drops the scissors onto the tiles with a dramatic clatter, and both hands fly to her cheeks, then into her hair. Her head feels much lighter, and as she turns it from side to side, there’s no swishing. No dark strands in her face.

“Oh…” she hesitates, staring at this new person. Her hands are splayed across her collarbones. “I think I like it?”

Héloïse emerges from where she was clutching onto the sink. “Wait, wait. Come here…”

Without any sort of warning, Marianne feels Héloïse’s hands on her, turning her around so that they’re facing each other. Héloïse is frowning, her eyes narrowed and intense as she brushes the hair from Marianne’s shoulders. Mostly, Héloïse is focusing on the new haircut, so maybe she won’t notice how red Marianne’s face has gone.

Héloïse pauses, then tentatively reaches up with both hands and runs her fingers through Marianne’s locks. Marianne seizes up at the touch, feeling pinpricks run up the back of her neck. She can’t help but stare at Héloïse with an open mouth. Héloïse doesn’t seem to notice right away, though she does stand like that for a few seconds, fingers lingering in Marianne’s hair. And then, she ruffles it, a smile creasing up her face.

“It’s good,” Héloïse says, and Marianne believes her. She feels a loss when Héloïse’s hands withdraw but is also able to return to breathing. “A bit uneven, but good. I knew it would suit you.”

“You did,” Marianne says, perhaps a touch too soft. Héloïse meets her gaze again, and the pair of them stand there like that. Héloïse’s eyelids flutter.

And then, she grins again. “Your aunt is going to lose her shit.”

Marianne groans, hands to her neck as she looks up at the window in the slanted ceiling. “I really should have mentioned that we were doing this.”

“It was spontaneous,” Héloïse dismisses. She has pulled out her phone, and after glancing at the screen her eyes light up. “You know who else doesn’t know?” Héloïse wiggles her eyebrows and shakes the phone about in one hand. “Sophie, who’s just coming up the road.”

They both seem to have the same idea at once and are soon racing down the corridor, already breathless. The doors are still open onto the balcony, so the pair quickly race through and lean over the railing. A breeze blows, and Marianne’s hair only ruffles with it. She’s never felt so delighted.

And just as promised, Sophie is approaching from down the street. There are people walking along the path or sitting outside in deckchairs, but Marianne is already overtaken by giddiness. She cups her hands around her mouth. “Sophie!”

Sophie is just in the process of removing her earphones, and looks up, confused for a moment but eventually seeing both Héloïse and Marianne above her head. Marianne hears her laughing and watches as Sophie waves with both hands.

“You have a balcony?” she calls, approaching the house and squinting. “That’s-“

Sophie cuts herself off and stops just underneath them. Marianne sees her jaw drop.

“Marianne, did you-“ her voice is high to begin with, but after a brief moment of realisation she goes deadpan. “Oh my god.”

“It was my idea!” Héloïse calls proudly.

“Of course it was!” Sophie groans. Their conversation has drawn the attention of a few bemused onlookers. “I can’t leave you two alone, can I?”

Marianne and Héloïse glance at each other, and grin nearly uncontrollably until Sophie yells at them to let her into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, I take Marianne's side on the Scooby-Doo movie argument.  
> Also, you may have noticed that there is a definitive number of chapters now. I did tell yis this was gonna be a long one!  
> Let me know your thoughts, about Scooby-Doo or otherwise!!!


	9. how to resist

Marianne has never laughed so hard in one day.

Not just because of the funny things that happen, but because she feels on a total high. The haircut, she’s convinced, was one of the best decisions she’s ever made. Or that Héloïse made, maybe. Whatever, it was a shared agreement.

When Pauline leaves for a few hours (after a gawping reaction to Marianne’s haircut) the three play cards on the carpet. Except the only game Héloïse knows is snap and she refuses to be taught anything else. Marianne has never seen Héloïse so animated, and learns quickly of the competitive spirit shared by the cousins. Sophie accuses them both of cheating at least twenty times, and when Héloïse wins a round, she sits up straight and smug, and carries that expression until she loses the next round to Marianne.

They go into the village and mill around, get told off for loitering. Sophie’s parents own a newsagents, and they are allowed into the back. It’s here that Héloïse trips over a large cardboard box and nearly goes hurtling into the floor. Sophie shushes them desperately with tears in her eyes as Marianne collapses to the ground in a fit of laughter. Maybe later she’ll look back and wonder what was so funny? But right now, it doesn’t matter, and her cheeks hurt from smiling.

They buy ice cream and eat it while sat on a wall. A seagull lands opposite them, and Marianne tell them that she’s always wary of seagulls. Sophie says: “I know what you mean, they’ve got a look in their eye.” Héloïse calls them cowards, and she walks around to feed the remaining piece of her cone to the bird. Marianne takes some pictures, only for Héloïse to catch her. She looks directly into the camera and holds up her middle finger.

Most of the time is spent walking around and chatting. They receive strange looks and run away many times until they collapse, breathless against a wall, only to start laughing once they regain energy. And yet, despite this cycle, the day feels anything but wasted.

Evening arrives too soon. They pass the newsagents and see Sophie’s parents shutting up. They call her over. Sophie says goodbye, and: “Please don’t cut your hair anymore without telling me first.” Then she leaves Héloïse and Marianne on the cool, twilight streets.

They walk comfortably back towards Pauline’s house. The giddiness has faded from Marianne’s chest, though she still feels like she is floating. The sun sinks behind them, and up above the stars begin to appear, faded at first. Unlike earlier, the air is still.

“It’s so calm,” Marianne comments. They’re alone on the street and keep their pace slow, maybe deliberately. “I can’t believe there’s going to be a storm soon. Though I suppose that’s a phrase: calm before the storm…”

Héloïse says nothing. Marianne looks over at her, and sees that she is smiling, closed-mouth and genuine. An easy smile, like she doesn’t even have to think about it. Her eyes are open and observant.

Marianne stops walking, as does Héloïse. _“Quoi?”_ she asks.

Héloïse blinks. Happiness shines on her face – that’s the only word Marianne can think to describe it. Happiness, pure and simple. It has never looked better than it does on Héloïse.

She shrugs. “Your hair is perfect,” Héloïse admits, and her eyes flit through Marianne’s short locks. “It suits you so well.”

Marianne laughs lightly. “Well, it’s your own cut,”

“Half of it.”

“Yeah,” Marianne waits only a few seconds, and then asks: “Why do you always keep yours up?”

Héloïse considers this a moment. Then, she moves her head back and forth, her yellow ponytail swishing in the air. “I like the way it swings around,” she says earnestly, and grins. She stands still again. “But I also like to keep it out of my face.”

“It’s not all out of your face,” Marianne points out. Her gaze darts to the pieces of hair that hang down in front of Héloïse’s ears. “There are strands…”

Marianne squints, and doesn’t even realise that she’s made the decision. But she has, and she steps forward just a little, reaching up to Héloïse’s face and tucking the loose pieces of hair behind Héloïse’s ears. She lingers, then quickly draws her arms away. But Marianne doesn’t step back.

Héloïse’s eyes are blown and starry. She opens her mouth, shuts it, then breaks into a breathy laugh. Marianne laughs too, but in a stunted, nervous kind of way. She knows that their breaths must mingle in the air between them.

Héloïse’s eyes dart up and down Marianne’s face. She reaches up with jittery hands. Nearly pulls back, but then commits, and slowly tries to push flimsy strands of hair behind Marianne’s ears.

Marianne laughs again, and as if on instinct, reaches up to touch Héloïse’s arms; two fingers on the outside of each wrist. She looks down at the distance between them, and mumbles through her grinning: “It’s too short, there’s nothing to tuck…”

Héloïse mutters something that doesn’t sound like a sentence, and Marianne laughs again, squeezing her eyes shut and rocking forward. When she opens her eyes, Héloïse somehow seems closer than before. Marianne is still touching her arms. Héloïse’s warm hands are holding her jaw.

There is nothing else in the world but the two of them.

The stars in Héloïse’s eyes puff out like candle flames. She drops her hands and steps back dramatically, putting an even further distance between the pair of them. Her mouth is tightly shut. Marianne isn’t sure of what’s happening. Héloïse has stopped smiling.

“I’m going now,” she says, with no feeling behind it.

Marianne stares at her. “Okay,” she hears herself saying, “See you tomorrow.”

Without another word, Héloïse turns around and crosses the road. She disappears down a laneway and doesn’t look around once. Marianne knows this, because she stands there in shock until Héloïse vanishes around a corner.

\--

Marianne sits downstairs, bundled on an armchair in the living room. She needs to go up and have a shower, probably, or at least wallow in bed. But she can’t seem to move. A perfect day became ruined just as the sun was setting.

Marianne can feel Pauline’s awareness as she comes in from the garden with a book under her arm. Marianne finds herself hoping desperately to be asked about this.

“Everything alright?” Pauline asks, sitting down on the couch opposite Marianne.

God, Pauline does not miss a beat. “I’m in a situation,” Marianne admits. The words were waiting just under her tongue.

Pauline has one leg pulled up on the couch. Her toenails are painted red. “With Héloïse?”

Marianne looks up at Pauline properly. “How do you know?” she sounds more stunned than she intends to.

Pauline raises both eyebrows, and pages mindlessly through the hardback book in her lap. “You’re not subtle.”

Marianne stares, and then sinks further into the seat. “I’m usually subtle,” she plants her head into her palm. “Dad used to say most of my reactions were muted.”

There’s quiet. Marianne tries to remember if either of them had properly mentioned her dad since she’d arrived. She can’t even remember the last time she mentioned him out loud to anybody.

Pauline sighs out through her nose and shuts the book. She puts it down on the coffee table between them. “Certain people make it hard to keep expressions down.”

Marianne gives in and relaxes at the acknowledgement. She’s done pretending. “I know it’s a bad idea,” she says, before Pauline can criticize her choice, “I think she does too.”

But Pauline surprises her. “Why is it a bad idea?”

Marianne meets her eyes. Pauline remains steely cool behind her glasses as if she truly sees no problem.

“Because,” Marianne begins, though she hardly thinks an explanation is necessary. “She’s moving and I’m going home. We’ll probably never see each other again.”

Voicing it feels like a slap across the face. Marianne shrinks away into the armchair, pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Something bitter lurks in her throat, and threatens to spill.

_We’ll probably never see each other again._

Pauline clears her throat, pulling Marianne away from the truth for a moment. Marianne watches her aunt squint at nothing. “You know I was in love as a teenager?” Pauline says casually.

Marianne doesn’t move at all. “What was his name?” she asks, like a reflex.

A faint smile flickers on Pauline’s face. “Lucile.”

Marianne shoots up as though she’s been shot through with lightning. So maybe her reactions aren’t so subtle anymore. “You’re a lesbian?”

Pauline raises her eyebrows. “Well that presumptuous,” she comments, still with a tone of amusement. “I could be bisexual, or queer or… likely some other word. Aren’t there lots more options these days?”

Marianne has flushed red again and is batting one hand around in the air. “Ah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Pauline shrugs and adjusts her sitting position. “That’s alright. But, yes, I am a lesbian. Was that not obvious?”

She’s making a joke, but Marianne can’t seem to laugh. She only sighs, and lowers her forehead back into her hand. “I don’t know. I think my gaydar might be shit.”

Pauline laughs in a barky kind of way. She shakes her head. “Well, unlike you, my gaydar is excellent. I knew that Lucile felt the same way. But out of fear, I did nothing.”

“Fear of what?” Marianne asks, less distant now.

Pauline settles into the couch again and gains a far-away stare. “It wasn’t so much about humiliation, or being outed. When it came to her, I was willing to risk the shame and stigma. But I was afraid to be hurt. Lucile was only visiting the island, like you are,” she pauses, “And I knew she would leave and I would be heartbroken. And guess what?”

“What?”

Pauline smiles. Closed-mouth, melancholy. “I was heartbroken anyway.”

Marianne stares. There’s still a cloud of dust inside her. “But… wouldn’t it be worse to have the memories of your relationship, and know that you couldn’t have that anymore?”

“No,” says Pauline simply. “It was worse that I never had it at all.”

Marianne blinks. Touches the side of her face while Pauline continues on.

“Of course, I moved on. I was fifteen, you know?” she leans back again, one hand resting on her knee. “But I still wonder about what might’ve happened. How my life could be different now.”

Marianne feels a dawning, deep in her chest. But she is unwilling to acknowledge it.

“Maybe,” she says, slowly, “I’m just like you were then. More afraid than…”

Marianne stops. More afraid than what? What does she feel?

Pauline doesn’t push her. Instead, they sit together quietly, until Pauline stands. She walks around and slides the hardback book back into place on the shelf behind her. She moves towards Marianne, and pauses beside the armchair. Then, Pauline ruffles a coarse hand through Marianne's hair.

In a flash, Pauline’s hand is her father’s hand. Steady, hardworking. Certain. Marianne’s eyes flicker shut for a moment. She imagines that she is a child again. Back then, she hated to be petted by her dad, and would fuss about it. Now, she’d give anything to have him ruffle her hair and answer her question. Tell her what to do. She just wants to be told what to do.

Pauline withdraws her arm, and Marianne opens her eyes but doesn’t look up. She feels heavy.

“Don’t be up too long,” says Pauline fondly. And then she goes, leaving Marianne in the living room with ghostly hands of her aunt, her father and Héloïse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short, bittersweet chapter, but these ladies have some emotions!!!


	10. how to let go

H u up?

Marianne blinks at the blue light from her phone screen. Héloïse’s text shines back at her, as does the time: 03:19 a.m. Maybe Marianne fell asleep for a little while, but she’s not sure. Either way, for the past few hours she hasn’t been very present. She got too hot in her room, so the sheets are tangled up at her feet, and she lies bare-armed in sweltering blackness. Trying not to think about anything at all.

But now, Héloïse has texted her. At twenty past three in the morning. Some animal stirs in Marianne’s stomach. She unlocks her phone, and stares at it some more. Until she realises that now, Héloïse knows that she’s seen the text. And Marianne has to respond.

How do you respond to _‘u up?’_ Especially after the tension that was put between them in the evening.

Marianne caves. Her thumbs tap hesitantly along.

M That’s such a fuckboy text lmao

Héloïse sees it immediately and starts typing soon after.

H i’ve never been so insulted

Marianne smiles. And then berates herself for smiling. She turns onto her side, and tries to keep her expression blank, as if she can fool herself.

H my question is answered tho  
why r u awake?

M Ur the one who texted me

H i didn’t wake you up did i?

Marianne feels a pang in her chest. Her thumbs hover for a moment, before she types out two letters.

M No

And then more.

M I couldn’t sleep

H me neither  
were u thinking about stuff?

M yeah

Héloïse is typing. And Marianne is frozen in her bed.

H what were u thinking about

You. You. You.

M Idk  
Things

H that feels like a fuckboy thing to respond with

Marianne snorts, and then turns her head. Buries her face in her pillow and breathes into it. The hot air blows back up into her nose.

M Oh my god okay lets stop talking about fuckboys!  
Or boys in general

H tru  
boys are overrated

Marianne reads that a second, then third time. An awful, alluring idea overcomes her.

M U don’t have a boyfriend then?

She holds her breath until Héloïse’s response appears.

H lmao no  
what gave u that idea?

M just checking  
what about a girlfriend?

It’s like she’s watching somebody else type the words. A braver person, who’s not afraid of getting hurt.

H no  
wbu?

M No  
I never have

And she’s being honest, of course. That dangerous, awkward trait. Her runaway tongue.

H really?

M yeah  
are u surprised?

Héloïse reads it. Héloïse is typing.

And typing.

And typing.

And Marianne can’t breathe.

And then,

Héloïse is calling.

The phone is on mute, but Marianne still feels it buzz in her hands. She sits up, and stares at the screen. She swipes to accept and slowly raises the phone to her ear. “Hi?” she whispers, like she doesn’t know who’s on the other end.

“Hi,” comes Héloïse’s voice, equally as quiet. Marianne is swathed in hot and cold.

“Wait,” she says, and slides off her bed, stepping shakily onto the floor. Listening intently for the sound of Héloïse’s breathing, Marianne moves towards the balcony and twists the unreliable doorknob until it opens. There’s a chill out on the tiles, and Marianne leans across the railing. In the dark, she can’t see far at all. But she knows that Héloïse’s house is there and that from the house, Héloïse is on the phone to Marianne. Waiting on her every word.

“Hi,” Marianne says, though she might have said that already. “What’s this for?”

Héloïse doesn’t answer immediately. Marianne feels an unbearable loss at not being able to see her face and watch her thought process, her consideration of the question.

“I just wanted to hear you,” is what Héloïse says in the end.

Marianne takes a moment of her own before responding. “Okay.”

“Is that really weird?”

“No. No, it’s not.”

Héloïse is quiet again. Marianne grips the railing, and stares hopelessly into the night. The sea has gone black.

“Okay,” says Héloïse, “Why have you not dated anyone?”

Marianne taps her fingertips on the cold railing, and tries to think about the question before she answers it. “Because I never liked anybody enough,” she concludes, “And if I did then they didn’t like me back. A lot of bad timing.”

“Oh,” says Héloïse. And that’s all she says.

“Did you think there would be a more exciting reason?” Marianne asks, trying to tease but only coming across as nervous. Her heart hammers. She thinks it might tear right through her skin, which feels about as tough as a paper cupcake case right now. It’s almost funny to remember that Marianne could once be told something surprising and keep a vaguely straight face. She always had a response. Boys who didn’t know her well used to call her ‘cool’.

She’s not cool anymore. Héloïse has ripped all her walls down.

“I don’t know,” Héloïse answers. Marianne forgot what she had asked. And then: “Can you ask me something?”

Marianne’s mouth is dry. She wonders if Héloïse can hear her swallow over the phone. She almost hopes that it is so. “What should I ask?”

More rattling silence.

“Something you want to know.”

Marianne wants to know everything. Everything about Héloïse. She wishes that they had known each other their entire lives, on this island where everybody knows everything about each other. Marianne wants to open herself up like box, and show Héloïse everything about her, even the things she has forgotten. Around Héloïse she unfolds her arms and opens her mouth to breathe.

She picks the first question that comes to her mind. “Were you thinking of me?” Marianne asks, louder than before. “Is that why you’re awake?”

Héloïse is quiet. Marianne thinks of her, stood at the large windows in the unused room. Finger to the glass. She imagines that they are looking at each other.

“Yes,” whispers Héloïse. Her lips move like a prophecy before Marianne’s eyes.

Marianne doesn’t feel the cold anymore.

“What were you thinking? What about me?” she dares.

Héloïse swallows. “I don’t know. Everything. This is very embarrassing.”

Marianne smiles, curling her fingers around the railing. She feels deliriously lightheaded like a helium balloon and thinks that if she lets go of the railing, she’ll either collapse or start floating and never stop. She breathes in deeply. “Were you going to kiss me earlier?”

Héloïse is quiet. “Yes,” she answers.

Marianne's heart fills her whole body. “Why didn’t you?” she asks, and isn’t embarrassed by the desperation in her tone.

She hears Héloïse suck in a breath. “I was scared.”

“I didn’t think you could get scared,” Marianne tells her.

“And I didn’t think you could get nervous,” Héloïse comments, and then laughs under her breath, so jittery that Marianne knows she’s shivering too. “Of course I get scared. I’m scared all the time.”

More quiet. So much has been laid out in the night air, and Marianne breathes it all in. Her hand kneads the railing. She shuts her eyes.

“I was thinking about you too,” she confesses.

“Really?” Héloïse sounds so small.

Marianne nods even though Héloïse can’t see her. Her eyes are still closed. “I think about you a lot.”

Silence. Marianne soaks in it. She doesn’t know if she’s capable of ending this call. And maybe neither of them will end it, and they will stay where they are forever and listen to each other breathe.

And then Héloïse tells her, in a louder, more certain tone of voice: “I think we need to see each other.”

Marianne’s eyes open, and the blackness bleeds in. The stars watch on with bright faces, and gasp on her behalf.

“Now?” asks Marianne.

“Yes,” Héloïse is firm. “Can you meet me on the beach?”

The answer is obvious. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Héloïse sounds deadly serious. “I’ll see you there.”

The call ends. Marianne still stands there a moment, with the phone to her ear until all she hears is her own flummoxed heartbeat.

Maybe she won’t go. Maybe she’ll let go of the railing and gravity will unbend, and she will go up and up and up. That feels likely to occur, because this can’t possibly happen. This can’t be happening to her. This isn’t the kind of thing that happens to anybody, let alone Marianne. Does she even deserve it?

It won’t happen at all if she doesn’t let go.

Marianne pries herself from the railing and manages to stand on both feet without floating or falling. She makes a sound that could be reminiscent of laughter, and looks up at the sky. She puts the phone down from her ear.

When Marianne goes back inside, she hears the stars and the moon cry out behind her, telling her to go, go, go. She doesn’t need to be told twice.


	11. how to be brave

Everything is black and grey. The tide has pulled in, but not completely. There’s some space to walk and watch. The air is still and warm. Marianne had put on a sports bra under her t-shirt but was in such a rush to get out the door that she nearly forgot to wear shoes. She squints through the night, walking unevenly atop the lumpy sand. Trying not to think, only using her eyes to search through the dark. Honestly, Marianne is afraid that if she recognizes what she’s doing, she will turn around and run all the way home.

In the distance, somebody is walking towards Marianne. She can hear the crunching underfoot and makes out a figure. But as they approach, Marianne sees more and hears breathing. A girl her height, her age, walking with hands clasped together. She’s wearing a baggy t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Héloïse’s eyes are still bright in the dark.

“Hi,” Héloïse says, and Marianne is overcome with the urge to touch her. Not anything dramatic, just to feel her arm or her shoulder. Even just to hold a finger.

Marianne almost forgets to respond, and when she does, she whispers. “Hi.”

Héloïse hesitates, and then: “You came.” She holds her own hand, drawing a finger along her knuckles. Bites her lips so that her mouth becomes a straight line.

Marianne wants to feel her face. Run a thumb down the length of her nose, and smooth over her eyebrows. Instead, she focuses intently on keeping her arms to her sides and feigns patience in her tone of voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Héloïse shrugs, and then adds: “I just shrugged.”

“I know.”

“Oh. I didn’t know if you’d be able to see, in the dark.”

“Do you want me to turn my phone light on?”

Héloïse says nothing at first. “I don’t think so,” she says eventually. “But I don’t know why.”

“Okay.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

Neither of them make a move. Marianne is adjusting to the dark and carves the shape of Héloïse out of the blackness. Is Héloïse doing the same? Between all their conversations, in all the pauses, has she been observing Marianne too?

She nearly takes Héloïse’s hand but feels stuck. She can’t hear breathing anymore, not Héloïse’s or her own. Has time frozen?

Marianne still feels the mild air on her neck, and the waves keep crashing. Time is passing. Each second she stands here is a second she is not speaking with or touching Héloïse. What a waste.

Marianne could stand here in the dark and let the sky change colour, and maybe neither of them will do anything. And maybe in twenty years, she’ll think back on this and wish she had done something.

Or she could do something now, and not spend her future wondering about what could have been.

“We should go into the water,” Marianne says.

Héloïse stirs. “Should we?”

“Yes,” Marianne is firm. She turns her head, looking out at the grey, lapping waves.

Héloïse exhales, giddy and disembodied. “I still can’t swim, you know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marianne means that. When she turns her head, Héloïse is smiling and has her arms loose on either side. But she says nothing. She’s waiting.

Marianne starts pulling off her t-shirt, and Héloïse’s breath catches. She’s grateful for the dark, as is clouds her burning face. Before she loses her nerve to either the night or Héloïse’s stare, her t-shirt is off, and she’s crouched on the sand, untying her shoes.

Marianne glances up to catch Héloïse’s expression. She’s stood there, entirely still, maybe looking at her feet. She shakes her head, and then reaches both arms across herself, and pulls her own shirt over her head while saying: “It’s going to be fucking cold.”

Marianne focuses intently on her shoelaces and forces a response from her lips. “We’ll just have to run at it, then.”

“What do you mean?”

Marianne doesn’t answer right away, too busy yanking off her socks and stuffing them into her shoes. As she pulls her shorts down to her ankles, she is shot through with the realisation that she has never stood like this before anybody in the way she is doing it now. So when Marianne leaves her phone on the pile of clothes, stands, and swallows her chattering, she answers Héloïse’s question without looking at her. “I mean, we run at the waves. Yelling, preferably.”

Héloïse is still changing. Marianne can hear but doesn’t dare look. Instead, she stares at the waves and breathes in the heavy, black air. “Will that dampen the cold?” Héloïse asks. Marianne finally turns as Héloïse toes off her shoes; no t-shirt, no trousers. The unabashed shape of her unfurls, and she stands barefoot on the sand.

Marianne quickly looks back out to sea before she can take the sight in, not knowing where to put her arms. “No,” she says honestly, “but it’ll be more triumphant.”

Héloïse laughs, breathy and quick. Marianne dares to move her head. The starry darkness still looms, and Héloïse is ghostly. But Marianne can still see her black bra and bare shoulders. Her body faces the sea, but her head is turned to Marianne. She sees Héloïse’s tied-up hair and flashing stare. There’s no shame or embarrassment in her expression. Her eyes pierce the night.

Marianne does all she can think of, and holds out her hand.

Héloïse’s rough palm fits tightly into hers, and her fingers squeeze. Marianne inhales.

“Ready?” she asks and finds herself grinning, looking Héloïse right in the eye. “On three. We’re going to scream, okay?”

Héloïse laughs properly, and shakes her head, but says: “Okay.”

Marianne begins to count and doesn’t take her eyes off Héloïse. “One,”

Héloïse’s voice mingles, already loud. “Two.”

And together: “Three!”

They yell nonsensically and clasp each other’s hands. The dry sand slides under their moving feet and the run is not majestic or cool at all. Their refusal to let go of each other complicates things, and their arms swing awkwardly. But the cry they emit is triumphant like Marianne said it would be. The sea screams back.

The sand beneath their feet becomes firm and wet. Some small wave crashes just as they’re approaching, and Héloïse’s scream turns high-pitched for a second. Marianne falters, starting to laugh. But then she starts again, and picks up the pace, splashing them both with each dramatic step. Héloïse’s yells are more like words now, but nothing Marianne can make out.

They stop running when they get knee-deep, and Marianne swears because Héloïse was right: it is very fucking cold.

“You splashed me!” Héloïse complains through laughter. They’re still holding hands.

“Not intentionally!” Marianne protests. “Holy _fuck,_ it’s freezing!”

Héloïse sucks down the air and wrings her free hand. “We’re not in far enough. Come.”

Marianne nearly complains, but allows herself to be dragged further into the sea. Another wave catches them, this time soaking the pair even more. Héloïse yells again, and yet continues to pull Marianne along, and Marianne goes.

They are waist-deep, suddenly, and Marianne has salt-water in her mouth. Her and Héloïse keep their hands joint above the water. Héloïse stops wading when the ocean is nearly at their shoulders and turns to face Marianne. Some of her hair has gotten wet, the strands slick against her face. Héloïse grins with scrunched eyes. She lets go of Marianne’s hand, who flares with panic. But then, Héloïse sucks in a deep breath and vanishes under the water with a splash. Marianne stands alone for just a moment, before taking a breath of her own and joining Héloïse under the sea.

The water is inky dark and the cold rushes to her head. She nearly forgets to keep her breath held when she sees Héloïse amongst the murky blackness. Ponytail and loose strands of hair floating about, legs bent, knees nearly grazing the ocean floor. She has her eyes shut.

Unthinking, Marianne reaches over to Héloïse’s face, and Héloïse doesn’t even flinch. Marianne brushes both her thumbs gently against Héloïse’s eyelids. And as she hovers there, Héloïse opens them and locks eyes with Marianne.

The breath in her mouth is not enough, though she wishes it was. Marianne resurfaces, as does Héloïse. Marianne blinks the water from her eyes and rubs at her numb face. She hears Héloïse spluttering, which turns to great heaves of laughter. When Marianne can see again, Héloïse’s hair leaks rivulets of water down her shoulders, and she grins gleefully. She meets Marianne’s eyes again.

“I’ve never opened my eyes underwater before,” she says, and then puts a dripping hand flat to her chest. “That was terrifying.”

Marianne is smiling too. The cold has been replaced with full-body numbness, and soon Héloïse’s laughter ebbs. They look at each other.

“Hi,” says Marianne.

“Hi,” responds Héloïse.

Pause. Marianne’s whole face lights with her grin, and she throws her wet hands into the air. “What are we doing?”

Droplets of water go flying when Héloïse shakes her head. Then, she grabs Marianne’s hand out of the air and holds it close to her. Héloïse speaks on like she didn’t do anything at all: “I don’t know. I just had to see you. I’m having an epiphany, I think.”

Marianne watches Héloïse play with her fingers and stare intently at Marianne’s hand. Her smile has turned faint. Half of her ponytail has come out.

“Do you know what I think?” asks Marianne.

Héloïse looks up, smiles, and flutters dripping eyelashes. Shakes her head.

Marianne presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I think I might be going mad,” she admits quietly.

Héloïse is still looking at her. Still holding Marianne’s hand like it’s something precious. “Me too,” she agrees, and straightens. Her eyes move up and down Marianne’s face, unapologetic. “I think I’m okay with it, though.”

Marianne turns the hand that Héloïse is holding, and entwines their fingers. She hears Héloïse’s sharp inhale.

“Your move,” Marianne whispers. At first, she’s not sure that Héloïse has heard her.

But she has. Héloïse wades towards her in the water, in a nearly graceful manner. Their hands remain clasped, and Marianne squeezes in a sort of reassurance meant for both Héloïse and herself. Strands of Héloïse’s wet hair stick to Marianne’s face when she leans in and fits their mouths together.

Héloïse is not the first person Marianne has kissed, but right now, it feels like she is. In fact, it feels like Héloïse is the only other person in the world. It’s only them and the water. Not even the stars or sand. There’s the ocean and there’s Héloïse and her wet hair. Her bold face and wonderful mouth. Her hand clasped in Marianne’s, both holding onto each other as to anchor themselves to the earth.

Héloïse breaks it. She pulls away, and Marianne doesn’t open her eyes immediately. She doesn’t remember closing them, actually. When she does look, Héloïse is staring at her with wide eyes, gone grey in the dark. Unmoving. Waiting.

Marianne doesn’t need to wait. She lets go of Héloïse’s hand, only to reach up and cup her face. Héloïse sighs into her mouth, as if in relief, and kisses her back.

Marianne wants to say everything and nothing at all. Héloïse pushes her tongue into Marianne’s mouth, and Marianne meets it. She nearly faints when Héloïse’s hand grips her on the back of the neck. Marianne is just her body, turned mindless in the moment. She drapes her dripping arm across Héloïse’s shoulders.

Héloïse tries to lean into her, and then slips on the slick ocean floor. Her lips fall and she ends up grabbing at Marianne’s shoulders to steady herself. The spell is broken. Everything rushes in as Héloïse finds her footing, and Marianne listens as she swears: “Fuck.” And then starts to laugh.

Marianne does the same, mostly out of disbelief and the rush of what’s just happened between them. Héloïse seems to gather herself, and stretches out her arms, winding them around Marianne and rocking her with a giddy hug. Marianne hugs her back, burying her breathless head in Héloïse’s shoulder. She’s going to explode or melt, or maybe both if that’s at all possible.

Oh my god. “Oh my god,” she says just barely; something less than a whisper. But she’s so close to Héloïse’s ear that Marianne is sure she must have heard it.

Héloïse pulls away from the hug, arms still wound around her. They kiss again, messily, half-grinning. Between them, they have a lot of breath, and can’t think where exactly to put it. Marianne can’t think at all.

Eventually, they stop, only to breathe. Marianne looks at Héloïse’s face and winds a hand around to push the hair that’s stuck to her forehead. Despite the cold water, Héloïse’s skin is warm.

“You’re very hot,” Marianne says, and then when Héloïse’s eyes go wide she quickly realises her error. “As in temperature! Your face is warm. But, you’re also…”

Héloïse is laughing hard, straight into Marianne’s face, which has started to burn. Héloïse stumbles backwards, taking Marianne with her. Marianne throws her head up towards the sky. “I promise I have better lines than that.”

Héloïse pulls her chin back down.

“You’re also very hot,” she whispers.

Marianne doesn’t move. “I’m a disaster,” she says.

Héloïse shrugs, and grins again. “A hot disaster, then.”

Marianne turns her face away and listens to Héloïse laugh at her. “This was going so well for a moment.”

“Is it not still going well?” Héloïse asks, and her hand trails from Marianne’s chin to her neck, then collarbones.

Marianne’s breath is stuck in her throat. Héloïse’s eyelids flutter, and she withdraws her hands.

 _“Pardon,”_ she murmurs but is cut off before she can say any more when Marianne grabs Héloïse's hands and places them back on her chest. Héloïse swallows, and her eyes flick up and down.

Marianne waits for a moment. And when she speaks, she's nervous but sure.

“I left my aunt a note,” she tells Héloïse. “She’ll just think I left early in the morning. I don’t have to go home.”

Héloïse stares at her.

“But I can,” adds Marianne hurriedly. “If you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” Héloïse wastes no time. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Okay. Do you want to come to my house?”

Perhaps the easiest question Marianne has ever answered. “Yes.”

Héloïse nods. She takes a shivery breath before pulling back. Her touch doesn't leave Marianne, even as it moves from her collarbones to her shoulder, and all along her arm until they’re holding hands again. They walk back to shore that way.

Marianne wonders how on earth has she managed to be so patient until now. Holding onto Héloïse, even when their hands are soaked and slippery, is something she thinks she has secretly been missing her entire life.


	12. how to know what you want

Marianne’s t-shirt and shorts stick all the way to Héloïse’s house. The air seems to have cooled, so now the water clinging to her body is cold again. And they didn’t bring towels with them either. None of this was planned, exactly.

Marianne’s shoes have filled with sand, and her socks are wet. She’s shivering and chattering in the night. Her short hair is still bleeding saltwater, which soaks the back of her neck and t-shirt. But none of this matters, because Héloïse is still holding her hand.

And it only hits, as they see the house on the horizon. That she and Héloïse kissed in the ocean. Héloïse, with her snapped brows and strange words. Her yellow hair and lowercase letters. Her intensity and beauty and the murmured voice Marianne only just discovered. Héloïse kissed Marianne, and they are now going back to her house.

Jesus. Fuck. She’s going to die before they get in the door.

Marianne manages to survive up the stairs, even as her legs shake. The house is dark and drafty. The cold truly gets to them then, and they shiver. They leave wet footprints on the floorboards and drip all the way along. Their hands are still clasped together.

Héloïse leads her to a familiar door. It creaks open, and inside the harpsichord and daybed wait, along with that desolate fireplace. And here, Héloïse lets go of Marianne’s hand.

“I’ll be back,” she promises, and rushes out of the room. Droplets of water hit the floor as she goes.

While she’s gone, a fire lights in Marianne’s chest. What the fuck is she doing? She tries not to pace in fear of leaving more sandy, wet footprints. But she stands there and pushes wet hair from her face, mouth open as she breathes manually. She is in Héloïse’s grand house, and somewhere in the walls, Héloïse’s mother dozes. Pauline sleeps across the way, believing Marianne to still be in the house. Across the sea, her own maman is blissfully unaware of her daughter’s ridiculous gay shenanigans.

This has never happened to Marianne. She has never got so far. Where does she go from here?

Héloïse reappears in the doorway. There is a towel draped around her, and her hair is a little dried, no longer dripping down her back. She’s also holding a large towel in her arms. Héloïse’s face brightens when she sees Marianne, and she shuts the door behind her by leaning against it.

“I would turn on the light, but I don’t want to alert maman,” Héloïse says, walking over. “Though I think we can speak normally. Here.”

Marianne holds out her hands, expecting to be given the towel. But instead, Héloïse’s eyes flash in the dark, and, in a sort of attack, she reaches up and drops the towel over Marianne’s head. Marianne, temporarily blinded, barely has time to start laughing before Héloïse pulls the towel away again. It falls back into her hands, and, with smothered laughter, she scrubs at Marianne’s hair.

Marianne bats out in protest with her hands. When she stumbles backward, Héloïse lets go of the towel and takes Marianne’s arm. The towel slips and lands draped across Marianne’s shoulders. Héloïse has a hand over her mouth, delighted with herself. Marianne bites down on her grin, narrows her eyes until she can’t bear it any longer, and starts to laugh.

When they’ve recovered, Marianne manages to tug the towel around her properly. As she’s pressing it to her face, Héloïse asks: “Do you recognize it?”

At first, Marianne doesn’t understand. But then she pulls away and sees that the towel is a familiar, fluffy brown. Héloïse’s eyes are wide with expectation, and she splits into another knowing smile when Marianne shakes her head.

“Clever,” she murmurs and dabs at her throat.

Héloïse drops her arms to her sides. She is looking at Marianne in such a way. With something so gentle in her glossy stare. How can it be true?

Marianne shuts her eyes and opens them. Shuts them again.

Héloïse sounds amused. “What are you doing?”

Marianne opens her eyes. Closes them. “Checking to see if this is happening. I find it all a bit hard to believe.”

With her eyes shut, Marianne feels hands on either side of her head. Thumbs gently press against each of her eyelids, rolling them open. Héloïse is still there, staring with intent.

“If you’re seeing this, then it’s happening,” she says, certainly. “It’s more of a question for me.”

Marianne doesn’t blink. “Why?” Héloïse’s hands are still pressed to either side of her head, fingers entwined in her locks of hair; a little drier from Héloïse’s insistent scrubbing.

Héloïse shrugs. “I hardly believe this either. It might just be another daydream of mine, gone rogue.”

Flowers bloom in Marianne’s chest. “So you did think of me,” her voice trembles with adoration.

“Didn’t I say so?”

Marianne blinks. Smiles like it’s the easiest thing she’s ever done. She leans in closer, Héloïse’s hands slipping to the back of her head. “You’re not dreaming,” she whispers. “Do you believe me?”

Héloïse nods weakly. Her stare flickers down to Marianne’s mouth. “And neither are you.”

“I believe you.”

They come together. Their faces are dry, but Héloïse’s mouth is still wet. Her fingers bunch up in Marianne’s hair, and Marianne moves her arm across Héloïse’s shoulders. She hears something thump to the floor. She pulls away and sees Héloïse’s white towel crumpled on the ground. She stands in her sandy t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms.

But Héloïse doesn’t seem to care and pulls Marianne back in, hands moved down to her shoulder blades. Soon, Marianne hears her own towel fall but feels no loss. Héloïse’s warmth is all she needs; all she has ever needed.

Marianne manages to speak against Héloïse’s mouth. “Fuck dreams,” she whispers, “dreams are nothing compared to this.”

Héloïse nods in eager agreement. “Fuck dreams,” she echoes, in such a way that only Marianne could hear it.

Marianne’s hands move like they are creatures of their own. Like they know more than she ever has. They find the hem of Héloïse’s t-shirt, and slide underneath it, holding her just above the waist.

Héloïse inhales and pulls back. Marianne immediately jerks her hands away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Swallows. Shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Héloïse’s pink mouth in open. She shuts it and regains a calm expression. Her hands move to Marianne’s neck, stroking gently with her thumbs. “Neither do I. You think I have experience? I’m the only lesbian who lives on this island.”

“No you’re not. Pauline’s a lesbian,” Marianne says.

Héloïse’s eyebrows shoot up in vague surprise. _“Vraiment?”_ a pause, and then: “Well, I’m hardly going to have sex with your aunt.”

“I hope not,” Marianne can’t hide her alarm. Héloïse starts to grin and flushes red under Marianne’s gaze.

“Come,” says Héloïse kindly, and takes Marianne’s hand. She walks Marianne to the daybed, and they sit on the edge, leaving the towels discarded on the floor.

Marianne watches Héloïse fondly and then elaborates in a quieter voice. “I more meant that I don’t know what I’m doing here. In your house.”

“Oh.”

“Not that I don’t want to be here. I do. But I think I’m going purely off want at the moment, and I don’t know why I want anything,” Marianne hesitates. “Well, except you. I know why I want you.”

Héloïse’s wide eyes blink. “Why do you want me?” she asks hoarsely.

A smile tugs faintly at Marianne’s lips, and she tilts her head sideways. “There are lots of reasons.”

“We have the whole night.”

“You want to spend the whole night listening to why I want you?” Marianne allows herself a teasing tone. “Seems narcissistic.”

Héloïse’s eyes bulge and Marianne laughs, leaning backwards.

“Well,” Héloïse defends herself, straightening up with that perfect posture. “I’m just interested. Until recently I thought you didn’t like me at all.”

Marianne is dumbfounded, leaning in with her dark eyebrows raised. _“Quoi?”_

“What?”

“How did you not realise? I was being so obvious. Even Pauline guessed.”

“Well, Pauline is a lesbian.”

“So are you.”

Héloïse breaks into a laugh and shakes her head. “That’s true!”

They wheeze in the dark until Marianne shushes Héloïse. When they recover, Héloïse’s eyes are wide again. “So go on.”

“Go on what?”

Héloïse rolls her eyes, but in a fond way. And when she speaks, her voice is deep. “Tell me why you want me.”

Marianne had nearly forgotten the original point of their conversation. She inhales deeply and tries to concentrate. Break it into words.

“Because you’re unpredictable,” Marianne begins, “I never know what you’re going to do or say. I find that very intriguing.”

Héloïse stares at her, expressionless. Marianne reaches across the small space between them and takes Héloïse’s hand.

“And you’re honest,” Marianne continues, “I know you say that you’re not, but I think you are. You say what you really think about people.”

Héloïse’s eyelids flutter. Marianne squeezes her hand.

“And you’re beautiful,” she adds, quieter, “I know that’s a shallow one. But you’re really, like. The most stunning person I’ve ever met.”

Héloïse has her eyebrows furrowed. She shakes her head. “No, that’s you.”

Marianne’s eyebrows raise. “What?” she splutters, laughing midway through the word.

Héloïse is deadly serious. “You’re the most beautiful person,” she says firmly and squeezes Marianne’s hand. “You see yourself in the mirror every day, surely. How do you not recognize that? Aren’t you an artist?”

Marianne is speechless for what seems like minutes. When she speaks, her voice is wispy. “I’ve never been told that.”

“What?”

“That I’m beautiful.”

Héloïse looks alarmed. And then, her expression quells. She regards Marianne with soft eyes, but in an instant, they turn sharp. Héloïse’s lips are a flat line, and her eyebrows lowered in a way that could be angry. But that’s not what this look is. Marianne hasn’t seen Héloïse look this way before.

Héloïse turns away for a moment, down at the floor as she slides off the bed. She moves around so that she’s stood before Marianne, who is still sitting. They meet eyes again.

Héloïse inhales. She places both her hands on either side of Marianne’s thighs. “Well, you are,” she says plainly. “Beautiful, I mean.”

The air shivers, but Marianne can’t move. Héloïse doesn’t look away from her, even as she pulls herself up onto the bed. Her knees bend, and she shuffles forward, one leg either side of Marianne. She hovers there, and then reaches up to pull her t-shirt off. She tosses it aside, all without budging her stare. Marianne’s mouth is open, and she’s terrified to take her eyes off Héloïse’s face.

Héloïse is unblinking. She leans in and takes Marianne’s chin with her thumb and forefinger. Hidden in her unflinching, confident face is the nervous air she breathes in through her nose. Marianne manages to unfreeze and reaches up with slow, slender hands. Her shivery fingertips land on the divot between Héloïse’s collarbones.

Héloïse’s eyelashes flutter. She swallows and then stops hovering. She sits on Marianne’s lap. Marianne’s hands twitch, and Héloïse’s grip on her chin is unsteady with nerves.

But the want is greater than anything. Héloïse tilts Marianne’s head back and speaks into her mouth. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known. Do you trust me?”

 _I trust you,_ Marianne thinks. _I trust you, I trust you, I trust you._

Out loud, she says: “Yes.” Héloïse kisses her with an open mouth, and Marianne thinks she’ll turn into seawater. But she remains solid enough to fall back on the bed, taking Héloïse down with her.

\--

They don’t have sex.

Though at a certain point they do take each other’s bras off which makes Marianne’s head spin, nothing more happens. Marianne doesn’t exactly know why. She supposes that neither of them made a move to go further. Despite her runaway thoughts and all that she imagined in the past while, Marianne finds that she doesn’t mind. Enough has happened in one day, perhaps.

At some other interval, they face each other, breathless. Héloïse has the sheets draped over her waist, and Marianne takes in the sight behind lazy, closing eyes. And then, without warning, Héloïse turns her head and buries it in the pillow.

Marianne, despite feeling heavy with sleep, cracks a smile. “What is it?” she whispers fondly, and reaches out with a painterly hand to caress Héloïse’s jaw.

Héloïse stays there for a moment longer, and when she emerges her face is flushed. “I’m embarrassed,” she mumbles.

“Why?” Marianne asks, completely earnest.

Héloïse swallows. Her gaze darts away, down to Marianne’s bare chest, half-covered by sheets. Her cheeks darken, much to Marianne’s delight. But then, in a low voice, she says: “I’m sorry that we didn’t.”

Marianne doesn’t need her to elaborate. “It’s okay,” she says, and strokes Héloïse’s burning face.

“No, I mean. I know we didn’t discuss it or anything, not properly. And I do want to, someday.”

“Héloïse, it’s okay.”

“But I’m not sure. It all seems very quick,” she makes a face, maybe just to cloud her budding upset. “I know I’m not making much sense.”

“You don’t have to make sense,” Marianne assures Héloïse, and rolls a thumb over her apple cheek. “All that matters is whether you want to or not, right now. And if you don’t want to sleep with me tonight then we won’t. If you don’t want to sleep with me this summer then we won’t. If you never want to sleep with me, then we won’t. You don’t need a reason.”

Héloïse’s stares at her. Eyes alit. She reaches across and takes Marianne’s upper arm. “You’re wonderful,” she says, as if she truly believes it.

Marianne mirrors Héloïse, and soon they are lying tangled in the daybed, holding onto each other’s arms. And despite the sky that lightens outside, Marianne drifts away. She succumbs to the most blissful, dreamless sleep.


	13. how to pretend you were never here

Marianne wakes abruptly when somebody tries to open the door. Her eyes fly open and she jolts backwards, but the room doesn’t quite bleed into view. She blinks against the fuzzy blue colour and is just coming back to the world when she hears that rattling doorknob again. But it’s locked, of course.

“Héloïse?” comes a voice from behind the door, somewhat concerned.

Héloïse. As soon as her name is mentioned, Marianne sees her lying there. She has her back to Marianne, and is draped in white sheets. Héloïse begins to stir just as her mother’s voice perseveres.

“Héloïse, are you in there?” followed by knocking. “You’re not in your room.”

Marianne hears Héloïse’s laboured breath, and she uncurls from the sheets. “Fuck’s sake,” she mumbles, which quirks a smile on Marianne’s half-asleep face. Héloïse stretches her neck on the pillow and brings one hand to her forehead. She calls out in a groggy voice: “Leave me be, it’s early.”

“Early?” in an instant, the concern is gone from Héloïse’s mother’s voice. “It’s one in the afternoon!”

Marianne’s eyes shoot open wide. Héloïse seems to feel similar, as she blurts: “Oh, Jesus,” followed by a louder: “Okay, one minute!”

There’s silence from out in the hallway. And then, gratefully, Marianne hears shoes click away. Both her and an unmoving Héloïse listen until there’s quiet again. And when they’re both certain, Héloïse spins her head to stare at Marianne, who is propped up on one elbow.

At first, Marianne cannot quite believe this sight. She is half convinced that she was dreaming for all of yesterday. But no: her hair still ends just below her ears, she’s not in her room. Marianne is also still topless, she quickly realises, and considers pulling the sheets up to cover herself.

Héloïse is the most unbelievable thing of all. Her yellow hair is spilt in tangles across the white pillow, and when she turns onto her back and starts to grin, almost manically, Marianne’s heart tells her no: this cannot be real.

But the kiss Héloïse pulls her in for certainly feels real. Her hands slide onto Marianne’s shoulders. And when they detach, Héloïse says: “Good morning.”

Marianne starts smiling, closed-mouth and fond. “Good afternoon, I think.”

Héloïse scrunches up her face, dark eyebrows lowered. Her eyes look heavy. “I can’t believe that.”

“Well, lots happened yesterday.”

Héloïse’s eyebrows remain furrowed, but her lips twitch. When she speaks, her voice is what Marianne can only describe as husky _. “C’est vrai.”_

Marianne stays there, with Héloïse holding onto her, until her eyes widen. “Oh, your mother doesn’t know I’m here.”

Héloïse’s eyes flash, and she nearly shouts: _“Merde!”_ Before lurching up, letting the white sheets fall. Marianne becomes immensely distracted for a moment, but Héloïse doesn’t even seem to notice. She looks to the door, and then across at the window.

“I’m not going out the window,” says Marianne, before Héloïse could even dare to suggest.

Héloïse sighs. “You’re no fun,” she murmurs, and rolls her head back, frowning at the ceiling. Until her eyes light, and she turns to Marianne. Héloïse points a pink finger at her face. “Then I’ll just get you back out the door.”

\--

So begins operation: get Marianne out of the house.

Marianne puts her bra and t-shirt back on, but points out that along with her cloth shorts it wouldn’t be an entirely feasible outfit to arrive in. Héloïse frowns and agrees. But her eyes have a certain tease to them when she says: “You’ll have to wear something of mine.”

Héloïse returns from her room, having managed to avoid her mother there and back, with a selection for Marianne to choose from. She even brought a dark blue dress, which is long-sleeved and pinched at the waist.

“I can’t remember when I last wore a dress,” Marianne blinks, and strokes the fabric as Héloïse holds it out to her. “Maybe my uncle’s wedding.”

“It would look nice on you.”

Marianne hums, unconvinced. “I feel strange in dresses. I don’t know how to sit or stand.”

“Suit yourself,” Héloïse pulls the dress back, and holds it against herself with a thoughtful expression. “Maybe I’ll wear this today.”

They change together in a comfortable sort of way, though Marianne still catches Héloïse’s red face. _“Quoi?”_ she asks, dark eyes daring. Héloïse shakes her head and pulls at a strand of her own hair, which she is leaving down today. Marianne doesn’t ask why.

Héloïse looks Marianne over when she has changed, smiling all the while with bright eyes.

“Do you like that I’m wearing your clothes?” Marianne’s head is tilted. She won’t admit it, but she likes very much to be wearing Héloïse’s clothes. She likes the idea that Héloïse too, has fitted into these.

Héloïse shrugs, though Marianne knows the answer from her pink cheeks. And then, she unbends her head and gasps. Marianne isn’t sure of the last time she heard a genuine gasp from anybody, but it sounds right when Héloïse does it. Without a word, Héloïse turns back to the clothes she has laid out on the bed, and digs around in the pockets of a pair of jeans discarded on the sheets. She finds what she’s looking for, and reveals two shiny green earrings to Marianne. Her eyes are glittering in the most unimaginable way.

“I never wear these,” Héloïse walks up to Marianne, standing close to her face. “I think you should have them, with your outfit.”

Marianne nearly accepts, before remembering a fundamental flaw in this. “My ears aren’t pierced.”

Héloïse’s eyes fall wide open, the same way a person’s jaw would when cornered by surprise. “What?” she demands.

“I don’t really wear accessories, so…”

“We should pierce your ears.”

“Okay, no,” Marianne puts her hands on her hips. “This is where I draw the line. You already cut my hair.”

“Half of it.”

“Exactly! What if you lost your nerve again and only pierced one of my ears?”

Héloïse opens her mouth and shuts it again, heaving out through her nose. “They would have looked so nice on you.”

Marianne is smiling. She can’t seem to help it around Héloïse. “Would it even be sanitary? Sharing earrings doesn’t seem like a wholly good idea.”

Héloïse’s frown deepens. “I didn’t think this through.”

Marianne laughs, and watches Héloïse’s expression lighten. After a moment’s consideration, Marianne leans forward and kisses Héloïse tenderly on the cheek. As she does so, she manages to find Héloïse’s palm, and plucks the earring she holds in it.

“How about,” Marianne begins after having pulled away, a satisfied smile lying languid across her face. “I keep this one, and you keep that one.”

Héloïse’s eyes light like a child’s, and she nods. She watches Marianne’s face with a kind of wonder.

But all of that shuts off in an instant,. “Oh, shit,” she wrinkles her nose, “I forgot that you’re not supposed to be in here.”

And so the plan prevails.

The hallway seems long and daunting, and every floorboard is a potential nemesis. They are near the stairs when a voice calls down the corridor: “Héloïse!”

Marianne is close to tripping down the stairs with the rate that Héloïse shoos her down. She tries to be light on her feet, but her boots are heavy on the stone steps. She just rounds the first corner as a conversation begins to play out between mother and daughter up above. Marianne begins to move slower, out of fear of making noise.

Héloïse sounds a little breathless as she talks to her mother. She mentions: “Marianne is coming over soon.”

“She comes over a lot,” Héloïse’s mother muses, “it’s good for you to have friends. Other than Sophie, of course. Oh, what was all that noise last night?”

Marianne holds her breath. She is steadying herself with one hand on the wall.

“Noise?” Héloïse sounds a bit strangled. “What kind of noise?”

“I don’t know. Whispering, movement. Were you on the phone or something?”

“No. Maybe it was a ghost.”

A pause. Marianne winces soundlessly on Héloïse’s behalf.

“Not funny, Héloïse.”

More quiet. Marianne has managed to reach the bottom of the stairs, and she stands by the door, terrified to open it and make an obvious sound.

It’s as though Héloïse reads her mind, as she starts speaking again, rather loudly. Marianne doesn’t focus on what Héloïse is saying, though the volume of her voice is a bit hilarious. Marianne manages to crack open the door, and slowly edges it wider until there’s just enough room for her to slip out. As she escapes and is about to pull the door behind her, she hears Héloïse’s mother complain: “Why are you shouting?” Marianne stifles her laughter until she shuts the door.

She counts to twenty. Looks at the clear sky and mouths the numbers. And then, Marianne knocks, the same way she always does when she comes over to Héloïse’s.

Seconds pass. Marianne hears Héloïse race down the stairs from the other side of the heavy door and inhales just as it opens. Héloïse stands there, breathless and beaming.

“Hello,” she says, high-pitched. Marianne's smile wobbles as she returns the greeting. She steps in the door and walks up the stairs like she hadn’t tiptoed down them only minutes ago. All the way up, they sneak glances at each other and look back at the steps with pink faces. Marianne thinks of the green earring she carries in the pocket of Héloïse’s jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this is such a short chapter, I might try and update again tomorrow! If I don't, then it will be the day after as usual.  
> All of your comments have been so lovely, they really brighten my days! :)


	14. how to fall further

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter will probably kill some of you because of how sweet it is. Even I recognize that and I’m the author. Sorry to call you out but levlinwinlaer, I see you dying in the comments section all the time so. Prepare yourself with this one. I’ll have a grave for you to fall into by the end.

Marianne and Héloïse realise, suddenly, that neither of them has eaten in some time. So they sit at the table in the kitchen and have peanut butter on toast. They eat mostly in silence, until Héloïse’s mother, sat across from them on her laptop, starts talking to Héloïse.

“Did you have a shower last night?”

“I did,” Héloïse says after swallowing a bite of her sandwich. Marianne can’t tell if she’s being honest or not. “Why?”

“There were wet footprints in the hall when I woke up,” Héloïse’s mother types something onto her laptop with quick fingers, not moving her eyes from the screen. “You walked around quite a bit.”

Something overcomes Marianne. Under the table, she brushes her leg against Héloïse’s. Beside her, Héloïse’s head turns, and then focuses back on her mother across the table in an instant. “I was very tired. Don’t remember it exactly.” Her voice seems mostly the same, but there’s something taut about it.

“And there were some by the stairs too,” continues Héloïse’s mother. Under the table, Marianne snakes her foot along, and the back of her ankle brushes the hair on Héloïse’s calf. Beside her, Héloïse makes a muffled, strangled sound, and sits up. Her eyes are focused intently across the table. Her mother glances up from the white glare of her laptop.

“Are you alright?” she asks, somewhat alarmed by her daughter’s pinched face. Marianne does not move her leg.

Héloïse swallows and manages: “Fine, yes.” Under the table, she kicks her foot into the air and dislodges Marianne. Marianne smothers her laughter with another bite from the sandwich.

Just as Héloïse is stood by the sink to pour them both a glass of water, her phone buzzes. Marianne watches her lean against the countertop to check the notification. Héloïse’s eyes widen, and she grins unabashedly, something to be treasured, even as it becomes more common with each passing hour. She unbends her head and waves the phone clenched in her hand. “Sophie can’t come around today,” Héloïse says, not so secretly delighted.

When they shut the front door behind them, Héloïse stares at Marianne with hard eyes.

“What?” asks Marianne in a defensive tone.

Héloïse shakes her head. “Maman was right across the table.”

Marianne breaks out into a smile as they start off down the path, side by side. “It was barely anything!”

Héloïse stays stubborn, huffing her annoyance. Marianne tilts her head. “I’m sorry,” she says fondly, eyebrows curved. When Héloïse stares onwards, Marianne reaches out and strokes her cheek with the back of one tender finger.

Héloïse glances at her, and the smile she’s been suppressing flutters on her face. “I’ll get you back for that.”

“I thought it was funny.”

\--

Marianne texted Pauline earlier, and she seemed unsuspecting, much to Marianne’s great relief. Before knocking on her door, Héloïse says: “Wait,” and takes a slight step aside so that their shoulders are no longer brushing. When she meets Marianne’s eyes, Héloïse clarifies: “So she doesn’t suspect.”

Ah. “I think it might be too late for that,” smiles Marianne, ringing the doorbell.

Seconds pass before the door swings inwards, and there stands Pauline, glasses hanging on a chain around her neck. Her dark eyes dart between them, and she settles, smiles at Héloïse with a head tilt. “Hello, Héloïse.”

“Hello.”

They wander into the house. “How early did you leave, Marianne?” asks Pauline as she shuts the door.

“Oh, um, very early,” Marianne says with turning her head. Technically, it’s not a lie. She wanders into the kitchen area, running her hand along the rim of the table. Héloïse looks around at the tiled walls, hands behind her back. “I just needed some air.”

“It wasn’t still dark, was it?” asks Pauline without looking at them, moving across the room to the cupboards. “Would you like water?”

“Uh, it wasn’t dark, no,” Marianne tries to sound casual. She drops into a wooden chair.

“I’ll have some water,” Héloïse says, seating herself beside Marianne.

Pauline says nothing else, taking a tall glass from the top cupboard and bringing it to the sink. Marianne looks at Héloïse, who turns to her at the same time. Héloïse’s mouth blooms into a shy, wobbly smile, and her round eyes dart up then down to her folded hands on the table.

Marianne just about melts. Does Héloïse know how cute she is? Marianne makes a mental note to tell her so later.

Marianne manages to tear herself away just as Pauline turns around with a glass of water for Héloïse, who takes it in both hands and gives a quiet: _“Merci.”_ Pauline tells her no problem and leans back with hands on her hips. When her eyes wander over to Marianne, Pauline freezes. Dramatically, she picks the glasses from where they hang on the chain around her neck and slides them onto her face.

“Are those your clothes, Marianne?” she asks like she already knows the answer.

Marianne is glad she didn’t ask for water because had she been drinking, she might have choked. Not only are these not her clothes, but the clothes she wore to Héloïse’s house are in a pile on the floor there. Marianne decides to be as honest as possible. “No,” she begins and is about to elaborate when a hand slides onto her leg under the table.

Marianne manages to choke on air but quickly disguises it as a cough. Beside her, Héloïse is drinking with her right hand clutching the glass of water. The fingers belonging to her other hand have started to drum up a pattern on Marianne’s thigh.

Motherfucker. Marianne’s eyes are shot wide, and just as she refocuses she realises that Pauline is standing there with a somewhat concerned expression, hands on hips. Marianne coughs again, leaning into the table. “Mine got wet,” she sort of lies, “I went swimming.”

This doesn’t ease Pauline’s concern. “In your clothes?”

Under the table, Héloïse’s fingers stop their dancing pattern. Instead, she rests her palm on Marianne’s leg and starts moving slowly along her jeans. Or, Héloïse’s jeans.

Marianne makes an involuntary choking sound. Beside her, Héloïse pretends to not really be paying attention to the conversation, instead fixated on a spot across the kitchen. But Pauline is very much still paying attention, and her brown eyes are narrowed behind the glasses, awaiting explanation. On her thin lips, there is amusement, maybe, at Marianne’s expense.

Marianne manages to shrug. She drops one arm from where it rests on the table and takes Héloïse’s hand from her lap, bunching it in her own. “It was a spontaneous thing,” she finally remembers to answer Pauline’s question.

“I’m sure,” says Pauline. She looks like she’s trying hard not to laugh.

When they manage to escape up to Marianne’s room, Marianne is still holding Héloïse’s hand. If Pauline notices (which, let’s be honest, she probably does) she doesn’t mention it. The doors out to the balcony are still open, and Marianne hears seagulls caw across the sky. But there’s no time for that. Instead, she rounds on Héloïse, who has lost her calm expression and is grinning madly.

“Really?” asks Marianne, failing to sounds serious.

Héloïse shrugs and takes her bottom lip into her mouth. “Payback,” is the answer she comes up with.

Marianne shakes her head, and the way she draws Héloïse in feels so natural, like she’s been doing it all her life. She kisses Héloïse so that they bend into each other. Marianne could swear that she tastes the tap water on Héloïse’s tongue – and it’s probably the best water she’s had in all her life.

They end up fallen back onto Marianne’s unmade bed, with the duvet piled up at the end. Marianne flips Héloïse over onto her back and straddles her with a leg on either side. Héloïse’s hair is unbrushed and wild against the white sheets. She pulls Marianne down, willing them to be as close as possible.

Everything seems unbroken and wonderful until a very loud cough echoes up the stairs.

Both girls pause and Marianne turns her head to look across the room. In her fervour, she forgot to shut the door. This bed is creaky, and the house is quiet. If Pauline hadn’t already guessed, then she definitely has now.

Marianne feels herself grow beet red. Beneath her comes deep, breathy laughter. She looks down to see Héloïse, unabashed and giggling with scrunched eyes. She is still carding her right hand through Marianne’s hair.

Marianne exhales through her nose and smiles too but in embarrassment. She drops her head into the pillow beside Héloïse’s face, who tries to smother her growing laughter with a hand over her mouth. Marianne rolls completely off Héloïse and turns her head on its side. Héloïse is facing her, still snorting a little. She manages to quell her laughter eventually by biting down on her lip.

Marianne’s eyes flash with a quick realisation. Héloïse notices, somehow. _“Quoi?”_ she asks through a glowing grin.

Marianne considers how to phrase this. “You…” she stops, starts again. “I’ve thought about you a lot. And I also had a dream about you. And I’ve texted you. All on this bed. And now you’re actually here, on the bed, with me.”

Héloïse’s eyes grow soft, like blueberries. She reaches out and takes some of the hair that curls under Marianne’s ear between her thumb and forefinger. Her mouth falls open just a little, and then it curls into a shy smile. She buries her face deeper into the pillow and gazes at Marianne.

Marianne nearly dies. “You’re so cute,” she tells Héloïse in one low breath.

Héloïse’s eyes shine, and she curls her head downwards. Never looking away. She crosses her ankle over Marianne’s, almost thoughtlessly.

Marianne’s heart is going to explode and dye the bed scarlet. She probably wouldn’t even notice. Far too caught up in the living, breathing vision that is lying right before her.

\--

Marianne and Héloïse - oh, how Marianne loves the sound of their names together, even in her head. It could be Héloïse and Marianne. Either way, it makes her grin with a childlike giddiness, something she’s often tried to suppress in favour of being taken seriously.

But yes. Héloïse and Marianne manage to escape out the door with a fumbled goodbye to aunt Pauline. Marianne has her satchel slung over her shoulder and has changed her shoes and socks. They walk with a slight gap between them because it’s a sunny afternoon and there are people all about, walking by on the streets. They don’t know Marianne, but they know Héloïse, and Héloïse knows them. She nods to some of them as they pass, and even says _“Salut,”_ in a courteous kind of way. She seems somewhat nervous to be with Marianne in the presence of other people.

Maybe this should frustrate Marianne, but it doesn’t. Instead, she suggests: “We should go up to the grass.”

So they do. They pass the beach on their way, which is busy once again. Full of people, clueless as to the monumental events that took place in the water very early in the morning. Héloïse moves up the slope, and Marianne watches as she walks. Her dark dress, the hair that trickles like water down her shoulders. She turns her head once or twice, squinting out to sea. Lost in thought.

Eventually, as they walk on, Héloïse catches Marianne staring. She loses her pensive expression and softens. Marianne doesn’t look away, even from Héloïse’s intense eyes, and Héloïse struggles to hold back a smile. She looks ahead and then back again, grinning this time.

Without warning, Héloïse starts to run. Her dress doesn’t seem to bother her, and she loses any kind of grace as she races along. Her arms flail. The grass swishes with each step she takes.

Marianne, of course, runs after her.

It’s an uphill climb, so by the time they’re near the top, Marianne is breathless. But she keeps running, clutching her satchel to her so it doesn’t flop against her with each stride. Héloïse seems unbroken, hair whipping in the wind. Now, ahead of them is only the cliffs and horizon. If they started flying, now, it wouldn’t surprise Marianne in the least. It feels like something that could happen to them.

Héloïse comes to a startling stop near the cliffs, arms out to steady herself. But Marianne’s legs don’t get the message in time and just as Héloïse turns, both girls collide.

Marianne tries to reclaim this halfway through, and she wraps her arms around Héloïse as though the tackling was on purpose. Héloïse gasps as they fall sideways and hit the ground, which is surprisingly rough. Though it shouldn’t be surprising, Marianne supposes, because it’s not like grass is equal to a cushion. She also lands partly on top of Héloïse.

“What was that?” demands Héloïse, but she’s grinning.

Marianne has no time to apologise or defend herself because Héloïse is quickly pushing Marianne away. But as soon as Marianne lies on her back in the grass, Héloïse is on top of her with one hand under her head. She kisses Marianne like she doesn’t ever want to stop.

\--

Marianne’s satchel contains two apples, her phone, coloured pencils and her sketchbook.

This sketchbook does not have much variation. Marianne flips through six pages which are full of Héloïse. Héloïse sees, and her eyes glint. She bites into her apple – the green one. She asked for it specifically.

“Green apples are better,” she says it like a fact, lying on her stomach in the grass. Her legs are kicked up behind her.

“Why?” asks Marianne. Her apple is mostly red.

Héloïse thinks for a moment. “They tend to be sharper,” she concludes. “Not sweet or mushy.”

“I like sweet apples,” Marianne defends. She sits up and balances the sketchbook on her lap, a pencil fitted neatly into her hand. “But I agree, mushy apples are shit.”

“Obviously,” Héloïse mumbles, chewing.

Marianne makes two pencil strokes when Héloïse shifts in her position, and hands out her green apple. “Here, you try it,” she says. “And I’ll try your sweet red one.”

Marianne raises her eyebrows but takes the green apple. Héloïse has taken three bites from it. Marianne hasn’t started eating hers. Before she hands her red apple over, Marianne bites into it. She’s not sure why she does that.

Héloïse is smiling though, and takes it from Marianne. They hold each other’s apples for a moment before Héloïse asks: “Would it be strange for me to take a piece from where you bit into it?”

It probably would be, yes. It would be even weirder of Marianne to do the same thing. But Marianne shakes her head anyway, and they both sink their teeth into the other’s bite-marks.

A month ago, if she saw her friend at home do this with his girlfriend, Marianne would’ve pretended to vomit. But things are different for her now, and this feels somewhat daring or exciting. She barely takes in the taste, instead revelling in the action of it.

But then she tries to think about it. And in handing the green apple back, Marianne says: “I know what you mean. It’s sour.”

“And yours is sweet,” Héloïse hands the red apple back, still crunching.

“And do you still not like sweet things?”

Héloïse smiles, and shrugs. Absent-mindedly, she trails a finger along the edge of Marianne’s bitemark in her apple. “I like you,” she says eventually and grins at her own audacity.

Marianne does get around to drawing, eventually. Héloïse moves around purposefully, to “give you more options.” She sits up, rolls onto her back and then her front. At a certain point, she pretends to bite the apple for five minutes so that Marianne can draw her that way. Maybe she’s doing it all as a joke, but it feels strangely thoughtful. And she always tells Marianne: “I’m changing position in ten seconds.” Marianne feigns annoyance, but it’s unconvincing.

Marianne fills up four pages. She now has ten pages of Héloïse. She starts to colour her favourites, scribbling intently with soft colours. Héloïse stays quiet, but Marianne can feel herself being watched.

At a certain point, Héloïse moves up beside Marianne and looks over her shoulder at the drawings. Marianne doesn’t feel embarrassed by them. It’s a feeling that’s become foreign to her recently; she was once unashamed of her art and didn’t mind when people looked over her shoulder. But it’s been some time since she felt that way. And now, it’s not just that she doesn’t mind. She wants to hear what Héloïse thinks.

Héloïse moves between the four new pages, her eyes lingering at every corner. Marianne watches her face, which would’ve once been unreadable to her. But now, she catches faint twinges at the corners of Héloïse’s mouth. The twitching of her nose. Her soft, deliberate blinks, as though she forgets to do it manually. When she likes something, Héloïse opens her mouth just slightly. Not to say anything, just as an acknowledgement.

After some quiet, Héloïse reaches out with her forefinger and places it gently on the page, as to not smudge the pencil. She’s lingering on a coloured sketch, where Héloïse is on her back, hands resting under her chin.

“Draw the sky behind me,” Héloïse says, “and make it a storm.”

Marianne hesitates, and then reaches for her pencils. She takes the black, white, grey and dark blue. Héloïse stays by her side and watches Marianne turn the sky into something grey and swirly. Marianne doesn’t really know how to draw a storm, and this is mostly all guesswork because the sky today is cloudless and blue and doesn’t at all resemble the weather that is forecast in less than a week.

Somehow, though, it seems to work. She shades lightly over Héloïse and the grass to make sure they match with the surroundings. Somewhat satisfied, Marianne puts down her pencils.

Héloïse’s head drops onto Marianne’s shoulder. Marianne nearly shuts her eyes. She could easily fall asleep sitting up, as long as Héloïse is by her.

Héloïse turns her head and murmurs into Marianne’s neck: “I’d like to be caught in a storm with you.”

\--

They actually do fall asleep in the grass, after some more easy chat. At first, Marianne doesn’t notice that she's drifting off, but when she does, she doesn’t try to stop it.

When Marianne opens her eyes, Héloïse is already awake. Her eyes are open, and she’s looking up at the sky.

“I should probably go home,” she says, reluctantly. “Do you want to come back with me?”

Marianne nearly says yes, but after stretching her arms and legs she decides: “No, I should go home too.”

Home. When did she start calling Pauline’s house home? It’s ridiculous, actually. She’s only been on this island for less than two weeks. It’s also true that she’s only known Héloïse for two weeks, and yet it feels like they have known each other all their lives.

They hold hands on the way to Héloïse’s house and don’t speak. Until the chateau appears ahead of them when Héloïse says: “I dreamt about you, just there.”

Marianne turns to look at Héloïse and waits for her to elaborate. She seems to be thinking hard.

“I was running down the stairs in my house,” Héloïse explains with far-away eyes. “And when I got to the door, I flung it open. And outside there was thunder and lightning and rain; the trees were being torn to shreds, and I could somehow see that the ocean was stormy too. You were stood right in the middle of it all. But you weren’t soaked, or anything. You were dry and very confident, the way you look now. You held out your hand and I took it, and you pulled me outside. But it wasn’t cold or wet, only warm. And my vision went black.”

Marianne doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says nothing. Only squeezes Héloïse’s hand tighter.

Héloïse opens her door with a key and then turns. She stands in her doorway and smiles at Marianne, waiting.

So Marianne kisses her, of course. Héloïse tastes sharp and sweet at the same time.

Marianne lingers near her mouth for a moment and then tugs herself away. Héloïse’s eyes are open.

“Did you keep your eyes open for that?” Marianne asks, amused.

Héloïse shrugs. “I just wanted to try it.”

“How was it?”

Héloïse shrugs again, playfully. Marianne squints and leans in. She sees Héloïse’s eyes start to close and quickly pulls away before their lips can meet. “No, you have to keep yours open too!”

Héloïse’s eyes open, and the corners of her mouth twitch in amusement. “Okay.”

They both lean forward this time. Marianne finds that she might not know how to kiss while she’s looking. They can’t work out their noses at first, and when their mouths meet Marianne doesn’t know where to look. Héloïse’s eyes are very close and wide, and she sees all the pink veins and her dark eyelashes. But it doesn’t last too long this time, because they both start laughing.

Marianne shakes her head. “Okay, let’s not do that.”

Héloïse nods and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Did you just wipe your mouth?” Marianne doesn’t mean to sound so indignant.

Héloïse laughs, open-mouthed, and nods several times.

Marianne clicks her tongue, suppressing a grin. “That is _so_ rude.”

Without warning, Héloïse goes to lean in again, eyelids closing over. But she stops halfway and asks: “Are your eyes shut?”

Marianne shuts her eyes. “Yes.”

Héloïse kisses her, head tilted all the way to the right while Marianne’s remains straight. When she pulls away, Marianne takes a moment to open her eyes, and then they both grin. She’s not sure she will ever be over this.

“Okay, that was the real goodbye,” Héloïse says firmly, hands behind her back.

“Yes, it was.”

“Okay.”

Neither of them move.

Marianne bursts. “We’re really bad at this.”

Héloïse’s deep, stunning laugh. “We are!” She tilts backwards.

Marianne takes her by the shoulders this time and kisses her quickly but earnestly. As soon as she pulls back, she blurts: “Okay, now bye.”

“Bye,” Héloïse shakes her head, beaming. And then, she actually does shut the door.

Marianne walks away grinning, sweet and sour on her tongue. She nearly begins to wonder if their final goodbye in a few days will be quite as drawn out.

She nearly thinks about that. But quickly banishes it from her mind. She can’t start being sad about a goodbye that hasn’t happened yet. No, instead Marianne thinks of the ten pages of Héloïse she is carrying in her satchel. She begins to wonder which ones she will add watercolour to, and those imaginings carry her all the way to Pauline’s house.


	15. how to spill

S marianne I have plans  
mamma mia plans

Marianne stares at her phone. It’s early morning, and she’s planning to go over to Héloïse’s today. They had spent yesterday evening texting until it became immensely difficult for Marianne to keep her eyes open. She woke as though from a dream. But the texts with Héloïse were still on her phone, and the drawings from yesterday still fill her sketchbook. Now, she sits at her desk with the balcony doors wide open, adding paint to a sketch of Héloïse. But Sophie’s bizarre text had knocked her from the watercolour daze.

M I’m sorry?

S i was recently gifted a copy of mamma mia on dvd  
and as you know our dear friend heloise has a fucking MASSIVE tv

It’s true. But Marianne is only fully convinced by Sophie’s following text.

S ALSO heloise has never seen mamma mia!!!!

M What?  
I didn’t realise she was so uncultured

S exactlyyyyy  
actually I’m gonna make a group chat so we can ambush her!!

Marianne leans back in her wooden chair, awaiting chaos with a brimming smile. She soon receives a notification saying she was added to a new group chat.

S are we all here??

H what is this

M I’m also here

Suddenly Marianne has forgotten how to be smooth. Maybe it’s the group chat setting.

H oh  
hello  
hi

M Hi  
Nice to see u  
Text u  
I mean

H yes

S oh for fucks sake  
can I have a moment’s peace from the sexual tension

M Sophie!  
u can’t say that! Ur fifteen

S well it’s not me who’s flirting in the gc!!!!  
save that for ur dms

H ok but there are more pressing matters  
why is the gc named ‘mamma mia party time baby’

It is called that. Marianne hadn’t noticed.

H please don’t tell me that what i think is happening is happening

M Heloise this is a mamma mia intervention  
I can’t believe u haven’t seen this movie

H it’s American bullshit and it’s a musical

M I thought u liked music!

H good music

S have u even listened to an abba song all the way through??

H no

S !!!! so u can say nothing

H they’re all the same!  
it’s heterosexual bullshit

M Literally how dare you imply that mamma mia belongs to the straights

S also abba songs are NOT all the same!!!  
they have one about capitalism

H i’m sorry??

S you’ll understand when i bring the dvd over later!!!!!

H absolutely not

Marianne has to intervene.

M Please? It’ll be fun :)

Héloïse is typing.

H I haven’t seen u use a smiley face before

M Does it sway ur opinion?

H maybe  
use it again  
M :)  
;)

S NO

 _Héloïse_ _left_

Marianne starts laughing quite loudly, red in the face.

S ajhdfklhjasla  
mariANNE that was too much u killed her!!!

_Sophie added Héloïse_

H soz  
i don’t know what came over me

M Hi

H hello

S i think this gc was a mistake  
i’ve never third wheeled so hard  
okay listen ladies!!!!  
we’re talking mamma mia, heloise’s big tv, 3pm today

M Heloise say yes  
Ur life will be forever changed

H …  
k fine

S yessss!!!!  
u will have such a blasttttt  
and I stg I am NOT sitting between u two

Marianne is still grinning brightly at her phone, fingers splayed across her pink face. The bliss is interrupted by a knock at her open door.

It’s Pauline, of course. She has her hair in a towel. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“I can put some toast down for you?”

“Cool, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Pauline hovers. Marianne thinks she’s going to ask about Héloïse, and she’s actually somewhat excited to talk about the sheer experience that will be held at this film viewing later today.

But instead, Pauline says: “Jeanne called.”

Jeanne, her mother. Marianne grips her phone tightly in both hands. “Oh.”

“She said she misses you,” Pauline says. Her expression is flat, unreadable.

Marianne nearly asks something bold, like, if Jeanne misses her so, then why didn’t she call Marianne and tell her that directly? Instead, Marianne nods. She hears herself say: “Well, not long now.”

Marianne bends her head down to her phone, which has lit up with a few more messages from the group chat. Marianne doesn’t read them, only stares at the frozen words, and doesn’t take any of it in. Héloïse is probably bashing Mamma Mia some more.

Héloïse.

Not long now.

Marianne pushes it back, like batting a fly away with one hand. She doesn’t look at Pauline again, and echoes her previous statement: “I’ll be down soon, I just need to finish this.”

Pauline says nothing, but Marianne hears her pat the doorframe. When she’s gone, Marianne does not return to painting. Instead, she distracts herself with the argument held between Sophie and Héloïse in the group chat.

S this movie is a masterpiece you have NO clue  
shirtless men RUN out of the ocean with goggles on!!!!

H you’re appealing to the wrong person here

Marianne’s lip curls and she puts both her feet up on the chair. Any worry about tomorrow or the day after slips away like rainwater down the drain.

\--

As promised, Sophie does not sit between Héloïse and Marianne. Héloïse sits in the middle, even though she loudly voices that she would prefer to sit as far away as possible, or ideally she’d prefer death.

“How can you endorse the Scooby-doo movies but not Mamma Mia?” Marianne demands as Sophie starts up the dusty DVD player.

Héloïse whips her head around. Her hair is up again, and despite the glare she delivers, her eyes are bright today. She wears shorts. Marianne has made a mental note that Héloïse’s legs are available.

Sophie speaks up. “Oh, was she on about those films again?” She turns her head to throw Marianne a sympathetic glance. Her hair is pushed out of her face by a white bandana. “She made me watch them all when I was ten. I was scarred for life.”

“If the Scooby-doo movies were musicals then I would hate them too,” Héloïse cuts in loudly. Sophie clicks her tongue, unconvinced.

Before pressing play, they gather popcorn in a huge bowl, and Héloïse insists on keeping it with her so all parties can access it. Marianne thinks she’ll have to avoid this because she doesn’t know if she can reach over to Héloïse’s lap without going flush in the face. She also thinks that Sophie has very much noticed their exchanged glances and smiles. But she says nothing, only sips her glass of water and hums to herself.

The movie begins after a slew of very American, very 2008 trailers, each one more perplexing and shit than the last. The subtitles are on, but their English combined leads them to understand some of the dialogue. The glittering title card is nearly too much for Héloïse.

Héloïse. Speaking of which, Marianne spends most of the film taking in her expression and reactions. A lot of it consists of disgust or grimace, and often she loudly criticises the film. When it comes to _‘Money, Money, Money’_ Héloïse is immensely disappointed.

“This song is not about capitalism,” Héloïse says, forehead scrunched.

“It’s about Donna wanting to get with a rich guy so all her problems disappear,” Sophie protests as they watch Meryl Streep at the bow of a ship with a billowing dress. “Close enough.”

“Do you actually know what capitalism is?”

“Of course I – who do you think I am?!”

Marianne finds their squabbling immensely entertaining.

The movie buzzes by. Marianne joins in on the singing with Sophie, while Héloïse pretends to be revolted. But Marianne notices her smile when _‘Dancing Queen’_ plays.

“You’re enjoying this more than you let on,” Marianne muses when Sophie leaves for the bathroom during the bachelorette party scene. On-screen, Sophie’s dads are being ravaged by a crowd of women. Héloïse almost looks intrigued before Marianne pulls her attention away.

“I am not,” she says, offended.

It only makes Marianne’s smile widen. “You have to admit, it’s interesting.”

“It really isn’t. I have no idea what the plot of this is. All I know is Meryl Streep had sex with a lot of men in Greece and yet none of them are actually Greek.”

“Three men.”

“Oh, is three not a lot for you?” Héloïse is the one grinning now, head tilted.

Marianne scoffs and reaches a hand out to bat playfully at Héloïse. Instead, Héloïse gently takes her wrist and puts it, splayed, on her chest. Soon they are leaning in and Héloïse takes Marianne by the back of the neck. Marianne’s embarrassment melts away when their mouths meet. She moves her hand up to Héloïse’s jaw and starts to stroke fondly.

They both forget about the popcorn bowl. So, when Héloïse tries to move closer to Marianne, naturally the bowl tilts sideways and rolls off Héloïse’s lap. They break the kiss too late, turning in time to hear a clatter as the bowl hits the floor and spills.

Sophie comes back in to find them desperately trying to salvage the popcorn. She walks up behind the couch and looks at them with hands on her hips.

“In fairness, these floors are very clean,” Marianne observes, scooping a handful of popcorn back into the bowl.

Sophie doesn’t seem to care for the hygiene aspect. “How did it spill?”

“It just did! Things spill,” Héloïse rushes, sitting up to shrug dramatically.

“It just fell off your lap.”

“Yes! It happens.”

Sophie hesitates. Her brown eyes are sparkling with some devilish glee. “Did _‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’_ really alter the mood for you guys or something…?”

“Fuck off. Are you going to help or not?”

Sophie gracefully does not address this for the rest of the film, though she does giggle to herself at a few odd intervals, and only shakes her head when asked what’s so funny.

Nearing the end of the movie, Marianne also needs the bathroom.

“Hurry back, you don’t want to miss the final number!” Sophie calls after her and Héloïse’s groan echoes all the way down the hall.

Upon her return, Marianne turns a corner and passes Héloïse’s mother. Marianne smiles at her, hoping for just a quick greeting, but instead, Héloïse’s mother stops and says: “Hi, Marianne.”

Marianne, of course, stops too. “Hi,” she says, and quickly realises that she doesn’t know how to address this woman.

Héloïse’s mother seems to notice. Her eyes, the same frightening blue as Héloïse’s, flicker up and down. “Call me Antonia,” she says, almost kindly.

Marianne is somewhat taken aback by this. Still, she manages to nod. “Antonia,” she says weakly. She always feels strange calling her friend's parents by their first names, no matter how they insist on it. She was fairly certain that Héloïse’s mother would never suggest this.

And yet, here she stands. Antonia; still a formal name, but a first name nonetheless. Dressed down, more so than usual. Cardigan and all. Hair limp and frizzy, not curled the way it usually is. And in her eyes, some defense has lowered.

Antonia opens her thin mouth but doesn’t seem to know what she’s about to say. She hovers there a moment, leaving Marianne soaked in fear. And then, she reveals “Héloïse came home very happy yesterday.”

Marianne is surprised by this. It’s not said with malice, nor with glee. Antonia says it nearly like it’s news to her too. _“Vraiment?”_ Marianne asks, doing well in hiding her warmed heart. “That’s good.”

Antonia nods, observing Marianne with a certain care. “You’re good for her,” she muses, nearly to herself. “You make her laugh. I haven’t done that in years.”

Marianne fidgets. She rubs two fingers to her forehead and twists her feet.

Antonia notices and smiles with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, genuinely. “I’m just… it’s a good thing. But I don’t want her to…”

_I don’t want her to get hurt. I don’t want her to get hurt. To get hurt. To get hurt. To get hurt, again._

Marianne knows it even when Antonia doesn’t finish her sentence. Because she wishes it too. It crushes her a little, on the inside. Is she hurting Héloïse, in pursuing her? Are they hurting each other?

Antonia inhales through her nose. Whether or not she understands the exact nature of Marianne and Héloïse’s relationship is unclear (though, Marianne hardly understands it herself) she has grasped that they care for each other. And maybe she too, knows the perils of this.

But before she can elaborate, Antonia turns off down the hall. “Enjoy the film,” she says passingly, and doesn’t look back when Marianne says: “Thank you.”

\--

Héloïse insists, later on, that she needs some air after ‘that monstrosity’. Sophie calls her dramatic. Marianne tells them that they are both dramatic, only in different ways, and neither cousin takes this well.

They go into town and look in souvenir shops. Marianne thinks about buying something for her mother and then thinks that A. She’s mad at Jeanne right now, and B. a souvenir is meant to be a reminder of something that has happened. And none of this has ‘happened’ yet, because it’s currently happening.

Marianne doesn’t want to start thinking of her time here as a memory just yet. Especially not when Héloïse so casually takes her hand while they sit on a wall and eat ice cream. If Sophie notices, she says nothing. Marianne thinks that right now could be the happiest she’s ever been. If she could just stop thinking about the end of things.

She’s always been afraid of endings. Marianne hates to talk in past tense.

Sophie departs when the sky turns a darker shade of blue.

“I know I always talk about excitement,” she admits as Marianne and Héloïse walk her to her house. “But I get tired early. I’m always the first to drift off on sleepovers.”

“It’s true,” Héloïse concurs, an arm around her cousin. “It’s too much for you - you’re just so little. In both age and height…”

“I’m not short. You’re both gigantic,” Sophie grumbles.

When she waves goodbye, Marianne and Héloïse are left on their own again. Héloïse insists on walking Marianne home the long way. The streets are becoming empty, so they hold on to each other as they walk slowly. For some time, they don’t speak, and Marianne begins to wonder if she should mention what Antonia said.

But Héloïse gets there first. “I’ll admit,” she begins. “Mamma Mia was pretty okay.”

Up ahead is a short, white wall that looks over the sea. They seem to be heading in this direction, even though it’s not Pauline’s house. Marianne doesn’t complain in the slightest. “Really?” she asks, surprised.

“No, it was hot garbage,” Héloïse’s disgust makes Marianne burst with unexpected laughter. Héloïse shakes her head in genuine disbelief. “I can’t believe I sat through all of that.”

Maybe Marianne should say something else. Something funny or attractive. But she doesn’t feel like either of those things right now, even with the perfect view of an evening sea. The moon is split in half, sitting low in the sky. They stand there and watch it, alone together. Marianne hates herself in this moment, because despite how perfect everything seems, and no matter how she wants to not think about all the sad things, she can’t seem to help it.

But then she stops hating herself. Instead, Marianne unbends her head and looks at Héloïse. “Can I tell you something?” she asks, hushed.

Héloïse looks back at her, and her face is blameless. Marianne knows that she will listen without judgment, without interjection. Only with understanding.

So Marianne inhales.

“My dad died,” she tells. “That’s why I’m up here. Because… maman said that she thought it would be good for me to get out. And probably good for her to be away from me. And she was right, that I probably would have stayed inside all summer if I hadn’t been sent here.”

Marianne swallows. She’s not looking Héloïse in the eyes, instead focused intently on the lapping water down below. “He was an artist. A really good one. And since he died, I wasn’t able to, like. Make anything. Not even anything bad. I couldn’t find life beautiful or interesting. I forgot why I loved art.”

Marianne stirs. She manages, at last, to meet Héloïse’s eyes, which are waiting for her. “But I don’t feel like that anymore,” she says and knows when she admits it that they are some of the truest words she has ever spoken. Even as her voice trembles.

Héloïse holds her gaze for a moment more. And then, she closes the distance between them and reaches her arms around Marianne. She buries her head in Marianne’s shoulder, and Marianne shuts her watery eyes. Everything inside her is shivering. Even her hands shake as they grip onto Héloïse. She thinks she might slip away.

After what could be a minute or an hour, Héloïse speaks into Marianne’s neck.

“I couldn’t bear to hear anybody play the harpsichord after Suzie died,” she mumbles, hot air spilling from her mouth. “But I like it when you play. I really like it.”

They hold each other like they are afraid to let go.

Marianne sniffs and withdraws. They still grasp each other, hands wound around the other’s wrists. Héloïse’s eyes are glassy, and she blinks them a lot before returning Marianne’s gaze.

Marianne smiles. “I can’t believe Mamma Mia brought such a deep conversation out of us.”

Héloïse’s brows knit. She frowns just to combat her amusement. “Literally don’t you dare give it credit for that.”

Marianne giggles, pressing her forehead against Héloïse’s. “You’re such a cynic.”

Héloïse’s mouth opens in shock. “I am not a cynic.”

“You so are.”

“I’m not!”

“How do you know?”

“Because cynics don’t love people.”

Marianne laughs again, clear as a bell. “Do you love people?”

Héloïse doesn’t answer immediately. She inhales through her nose, nearly shrugs. Then presses her lips together, and whispers: “Some of them.”

Marianne stares back at her. And then she smiles, all fluttery. Héloïse kisses her, then. She doesn’t even turn around to see if anybody’s watching.

After they break apart, the girls laugh. Héloïse realises that she was supposed to be walking Marianne back to Pauline’s, and now the sky is growing even darker. They hold hands on the way there. Marianne feels as full and bright as the moon does once a month.

But something else tugs at her. So, she stops Héloïse again as they near Pauline’s door. “There’s another thing.”

Héloïse takes her other hand and stands tall with a look that tells Marianne to go on.

Marianne opens her mouth and lets it hang before she pushes the words out. “I really don’t want to go home,” she admits, staring firmly at Héloïse. And then, smaller, not so fearless: “And I really don’t want you to move to Milan.”

Héloïse doesn’t wait a moment more to respond. “Then I won’t go.”

Marianne laughs, looking down at their joined hands. But when she moves her head to look back up at Héloïse, she only sees eyes that are deadly serious, and an unmoving decided mouth that kisses Marianne and tells her goodnight with the most interesting, beautiful voice in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this chapter reveals my second passion in life: Mamma Mia. I stand firmly by my life choices.  
> Also. This is probably both the funniest and saddest chapter I’ve written so far. Sorry for putting yis through a bit of a rollercoaster with this one lol!!!


	16. how to break the cycle

Marianne is sketching absentmindedly in the kitchen when the doorbell buzzes. She sets down her pencil and calls through to the sitting room: “I’ll get it!” as she stands. The sides of her fingers are grey with graphite, and Marianne tries wiping them on her shorts to little avail while she walks to the door. She doesn’t actually think about who it could be until it’s open, and Sophie is standing there. Her face is flushed and uncharacteristically serious.

Sophie skips over greeting. “You need to come over right now.”

Marianne stares at her. She could, and should, ask lots of questions right now. But Sophie’s breaths are shallow and her eyes are dark and impatient in such a way that Marianne can’t deny. So, she says: “Hold on,” and quickly rushes back into the house.

After grabbing her phone from the kitchen table, Marianne moves into the sitting room, where Pauline is – shockingly – reading a book. She glances up when Marianne enters.

“I’m going out with Sophie,” says Marianne, trying to sound calm.

Pauline is not one to be fooled. “Everything alright?”

Marianne presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and makes some movement halfway between nodding and shaking her head. In the end, she says: “Probably.” Because surely nothing too awful has happened. Even if Héloïse hasn’t answered her texts since they said goodbye yesterday evening.

After quickly shoving on her shoes, Marianne shuts the door behind her. Sophie takes off around Pauline’s car and across the empty road. Marianne, exasperated, runs to catch up. Sophie’s expression is narrowed and grey in a way that Marianne has not seen before, so she’s hesitant in asking: “Are you going to tell me what’s happening?”

Sophie seems to break loose from her deadset ambition when she turns her head to look at Marianne. She breathes out through her nose and her shoulders sag, though she keeps her quick pace. “I’m sorry. Nobody’s dead or anything, it’s just…”

She hesitates like she herself doesn’t know. They emerge at the end of the street, and Marianne notices that they’re heading in the direction of Héloïse’s house. Her string of patience abruptly ends. “Is she okay?”

Sophie looks at her long and hard. “She wasn’t answering my texts, but I didn’t think too much about it. But when I went over, I got in with my key and heard them arguing really loudly. And then Héloïse’s mother kicked me out.”

Sophie focuses intently ahead of her. “I don’t know what they’re arguing about but I’ve never heard it this bad.” She turns again, to face Marianne, and within her expression is shivering upset. Marianne knows her well enough by now to pick this out, from the slight wobble in her doe eyes and the higher pitch of her voice when she speaks. “I just thought you might be able to speak to her.”

Marianne realises that, even though Sophie seemed so determined at the door, she is now asking for Marianne’s help. Marianne knows the intricacies of her answer quickly: “I want to go in alone.”

Sophie’s expression doesn’t falter. She looks down at her moving shoes and then focuses on ahead. “Okay.”

As they walk on, Sophie takes Marianne’s wrist and squeezes with surprising strength, one that could break bone. Another time, Marianne might have made a joke about that, but this squeeze comes from trembling fingers. Marianne lets herself be clung to all the way up the hill.

\--

Sophie leaves Marianne at the open door, and implores her: “Text me, and make Héloïse text me too.” She goes with swinging arms, and Marianne takes a breath before entering the house.

This does feel like a break-in. Is it a break-in if someone opens the door for you? Any concern about that vanishes as Marianne climbs the stone steps and starts to hear shouting from up above. The voices of two women.

Something drops in her stomach. Marianne hasn’t heard Héloïse shout before. The thought of it makes her chest rattle. She inhales and exhales and remembers to shut her mouth. Her finger trails along the wall as she tries to pick out words from the argument.

She emerges into the bright hallway, which seems oddly cracked in its modern perfection. From down the corridor comes a too-familiar voice, raised in a way that makes Marianne freeze.

“You’re not going to change my mind!”

All at once, it crashes onto Marianne. Their conversation yesterday, Héloïse’s serious expression when she told Marianne she wouldn’t go to Milan. At the time, she thought of it as an impossible gesture. But of course Héloïse would try and pull off the impossible.

She starts to edge across the hall and sees an open door. The one that leads into the sitting room where they watched Mamma Mia yesterday. Was that only yesterday? Everything is so quick and so slow on this timeless island.

“This isn’t a choice you can make,” comes a higher-pitched, more exasperated tone. Héloïse’s mother. Or Antonia, Marianne supposes. “You’re my daughter, you live with me. Until you move out, you go where I go.”

“Then I’ll move out.”

“You are _seventeen!_ You can’t live on your own.”

“I can, I will.”

They squabble further, yelling over each other. Marianne creeps further and further along, even as she begins to wonder if she should’ve at least tried to call Héloïse first, or if she should be involved at all in this mother-daughter argument. But her legs carry her through the open door, where a pair of alike women stand at the end of the room, mouths open as they throw words like stones.

Héloïse’s head whips around. The bite is only there a moment before her eyes melt, and suddenly she’s crossing swiftly to Marianne. Her arms, strong and knowing, stretch out. Marianne finds herself doing the same, and both girls collide and hold each other for an unbroken moment.

Héloïse buries her nose into Marianne’s neck. Marianne feels her breath flutter there. This is not the way friends hold each other; Héloïse is making no attempt to pretend in front of her mother.

Her mother. Marianne doesn’t look, though she knows Antonia must be staring. Instead, she stays entangled there until Héloïse pulls away. Her hair is down, her t-shirt untucked. Marianne reaches up to her forehead and brushes aside a fine strand of hair. They stay like that, wordless, until Antonia speaks.

“Are you the reason she’s so opinionated all of a sudden?” Héloïse’s mother sounds bitter, and Marianne nearly flinches. Instead, she stands her ground as Héloïse unwinds from her.

Héloïse still holds tightly to Marianne’s upper arm, and a flash of fire brightens her stare as she turns upon her mother. “She’s not to blame. Don’t stick your thorns into her.”

Héloïse’s tone is so grave and spiky that Marianne feels pinpricks fly up her skin. Héloïse must notice because she strokes her thumb up and down Marianne’s arm before speaking again. “If you want reasons for why I don’t want to go to Milan, they’re easy to find. You just have to know your own daughter.”

Marianne looks properly at Antonia. She is stood in a professional sort of outfit; dress trousers and a blouse. Like she was getting ready to go out. Her pale gaze flits towards Marianne. She wears disappointment like a garment. Her lips are thin, but she seems to have much to say when she turns back to her daughter. “I want you to have a better life than I did,” she says, ignoring Marianne altogether. “Don’t you understand?”

Héloïse shakes her head vehemently. “No, I don’t understand.”

“Héloïse, this family will always be traditional whether we like it or not,” Antonia walks forward, boots clicking across the floorboards. “There are certain things we have to do – that _I_ had to do. But wouldn’t it be something to not be stuck on this island all your life? We’re going to Milan for _your_ sake!”

“No, we’re going there for yours,” Héloïse bites back. Marianne removes herself from Héloïse’s grip just to reach down and take her hand, lacing their fingers together. Héloïse’s breath catches for a moment, but she keeps going, her voice raising. “You don’t want to think about this place anymore, you’re too guilty. I know you still see her in the fucking halls!”

Marianne feels the sting of those words like a slap across the face, even though they’re not directed at her in the slightest. Antonia is frozen, a statue. Behind her hangs that portrait, just as solemn and ghostly. But Antonia is struggling to contain an expression of hurt. Marianne can always see that kind of thing in people’s faces, even adults.

Either Héloïse doesn’t notice or she doesn’t care. “You think trying to force me into a cycle will make me happy? Suzie chose death over that shit.”

“Héloïse…” Antonia has shut her eyes.

“I can’t believe it’s her who’s gone,” Héloïse sounds exasperated, astonished. There’s a quiver to her lip, and her pale eyes shimmer for a moment. She takes a step backwards, bringing Marianne with her. “I wish it had been you.”

Héloïse turns, hot-faced, and storms across the room. Marianne, ever-tethered to her, follows. She stays with Héloïse all the way down the corridor and the stairs and doesn’t look back, even as Antonia rushes after them.

“Héloïse!” she calls, a snap to her tone. “Héloïse!”

Héloïse seems deaf to the sound. She tears down the stone steps and wrenches at the door handle with her free hand. Marianne remains by her side as they rush away down the path, past the walls of the chateau. Antonia’s shouts become lost. In one moment of weakness, Marianne glances over her shoulder.

In the doorway is Antonia, half-anchored against the wall. She is crumbling to the floor with a hand splayed flat on her chest, pale curls spilling to cover her face.

Like that, Marianne is facing ahead again, but that image is burned into her. As they race away, she glances at fire-faced Héloïse, who didn’t turn. Not even once.

\--

“You didn’t ask how I got in.”

Héloïse glances at Marianne at last. She has been sitting in the sand, fumbling with her fingers and staring intently at her lap. Thinking deeply. They are sitting so close that their arms brush. In the time, Marianne has texted Sophie to say that Héloïse is okay. But she’s not sure if she can, or should, elaborate on that.

Now, Héloïse’s light eyes flicker when they meet Marianne’s. Her expression in quelled, melancholy. “I wouldn’t care if you broke a window,” she admits eventually. “I’m just glad you arrived.”

Marianne smiles at her. It’s small, and not happy, exactly. Héloïse doesn’t return it, but she doesn’t need to.

Marianne is not always patient. But right now, she forces herself to sit and wait until Héloïse is ready to speak. The beach is empty down this end, save for a few blurry figures far out at sea. The day is young and cloudy. Marianne draws absent-mindedly in the sand beside her.

Héloïse gives no warning. “I told her that I didn’t want to go to Milan,” she says, staring at her knees. “And that I wanted to stay here. She kept pressing me as to why, and I mentioned you. I know I shouldn’t have, because now…”

Héloïse swallows, sits up, and refocuses her gaze on the water. When she speaks, there’s an awful hopelessness to her tone. “She thinks we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

The dread is slow, the way dawn crawls up the sky to surprise the moon and stars. Marianne shuts her eyes, rolls her head slightly on her neck. She knows that Héloïse is looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” Marianne whispers eventually and opens her eyes to look at Héloïse’s hand, which rests between them, her little finger dug into the dry sand. “I know what I said last night was stupid. I just spit my feelings like that sometimes. You don’t have to argue with your mother and not go to Milan because I don’t want you to go.”

“That’s not it,” Héloïse denies, instantaneous. Marianne looks up and sees the firmness in both her eyes and mouth. “I don’t want to go,” she says, assuredly, “and not just because I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave Sophie, either. And I know I complain about this island, but I like it here. I like my school. I like the sea. And I know my mother wants me to follow a certain path. She’ll try and pick my career, my relationships.”

Marianne sits up straighter, keeping her stare with Héloïse. “What? Are you serious? Do people still do that?”

Héloïse shrugs. “I don’t think she’ll force anything. And she won’t start talking seriously about it until I’m eighteen. But it’s what she did with Suzie.”

She hesitates. When Héloïse speaks again, her tone of voice is quiet, mourning. “Her boyfriend was in on it and she didn’t know, not for a long time.”

Marianne’s horror is not well hidden. The words spill before it hits her properly. “Is that why…?”

“Why she killed herself?” Héloïse is bitter. She leans away, towards the ocean, and hugs her knees. Her eyes are hard and fierce. “Yes, that’s why.”

Marianne says nothing more. She waits with her hands dug into the sand, as Héloïse stays completely still. But eventually, Héloïse uncurls and tilts her head towards Marianne’s.

“ _Désolée,”_ she whispers, voice cracking. Her head falls gracelessly onto Marianne’s shoulder, and she leans her weight there, breathing into the fabric of Marianne’s t-shirt. Her eyes are shut. Marianne reaches a shaky hand up and starts to stroke the back of Héloïse’s head, tangling fine strands of hair in her fingers. Moments pass like fish through freshwater, and then Héloïse mumbles: “I’m not angry at you.”

“It’s okay if you are,” Marianne says quietly, fingers petting Héloïse’s yellow hair.

“But I’m really not,” Héloïse shifts her weight so that she is closer to Marianne, and she nudges her head even further, so that Marianne, in turn, can lean her head on Héloïse’s. Héloïse presses on, the words unraveling like she is only realising this for the first time. “That’s the thing. I’m always at least a little bit angry around most people. Even Sophie, maybe just because she reminds me of my sister when she was younger. But I’m not angry at any part of you, at all.”

There’s quiet again, for a stretch of time. Marianne listens to Héloïse’s even breaths, and to the seagulls cawing above their heads. To the sea, and it’s endless coming and going.

But Marianne, for all her wishes, can’t keep the worry from her mouth. “She can’t really keep us apart, can she?”

Héloïse inhales through her nose. Doesn’t move her head, much to Marianne’s relief. “I think she can,” is what she says, and it falls heavy and truthful. “Once I go back inside, she probably won’t let me out again. And she won’t answer the door to you either. Maybe not even to Sophie.”

Marianne shuts her eyes. The chill suddenly seems much more prominent, as it crawls up her spine and sits, heavy, inside her head. At the back of her throat too, like an awful sickness. She’s afraid to speak in case she starts to cry. She hasn’t cried in a long time.

Something overcomes her, then. Like the slow pull of a violin bow across long-held silence. Marianne opens her mouth and lets it hang a moment before speaking.

“What if you don’t go back in?” she asks.

Héloïse is quiet for a moment before responding. “Where would I go?” she asks then, with that same hopeless tone. Even when she says something that could be a joke: “Your aunt would probably have to hand me over eventually.”

But Marianne is quick. Even as she doubts each word. “We don’t have to go back to mine,” she says, “We could run away.”

Héloïse hesitates. And then, she pulls back, away from Marianne’s shoulder. The loss Marianne feels is instant and frightening. She might have laughed at herself for that if she did not currently feel so vulnerable, so drenched in want. Want for Héloïse. Want to escape, to run and not look over her shoulder. Want to breathe air not crowded by onlookers or consequence.

Héloïse’s eyebrows are drawn like curtains. “Where?” is what she asks eventually.

Marianne holds her stare. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Across the island, to the other side. And from there, we could get a ferry or a hotel. Or just keep walking in circles.”

Héloïse stares at Marianne. Unabashed, unreadable.

Marianne smiles. She has to. “I told you I was going mad,” she whispers.

Héloïse doesn’t move. And then, all at once, she does. She picks Marianne’s hand out from the sand and holds it in her own, moving closer. Marianne meets her there and kisses Héloïse deeply. There’s an ache in her chest, like this isn’t close enough. It will never be close enough.

Héloïse holds fast to the back of Marianne’s neck. Soon, they are falling together, onto the sand. But even as they lie still, and sand tangles into Marianne’s dark hair, Marianne still feels like they’re tumbling from a great height together. Like they’ve been thrown off a cliff, hurtling towards the ocean. But they are tethered together, not by rope, but by choice. And the fall is exhilarating, exhausting. The most terrifying thing that has ever happened to anyone. But it’s freedom, in the purest form.

Héloïse breaks the kiss, and quickly speaks: “When are you supposed to go home?”

It hits Marianne, another pang. Another heartache. “Three days,” she whispers.

Héloïse’s eyes are fastened. “Can you be ready to run away in three days?”

What a question.

And, regarding this, Héloïse is the only one Marianne would say yes to.

\--

Marianne’s dad once told her, passingly, almost as a joke: “You’ll know when you’re in love, Marianne, you just will. Your heart will drop, and you’ll know. You’ll know.”

He was drunk at the time. So was her mother. In fairness to them, it was their anniversary party. Marianne had pretended to vomit. In fairness to her, she was ten.

\--

She lets go of Héloïse’s hand, and they look at each other until the door closes.

Oh. This is it, isn’t it? This craving. This awful, painful feeling. This willingness to make the most fucking insane decisions of her life. This great fall.

There’s a name for it.

Marianne’s heart drops ten thousand feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If yis thought they were reckless for making out in the ocean at night, oh BOY are you not ready for the bad ideas on the horizon.


	17. how to prepare

“That storm should be here in a few days,” muses Pauline. Marianne looks up to see Pauline’s back, her hair tumbling down her shoulders as she gazes out the window at the back of the house while the sun goes down. In her right hand, she holds a wine glass between her delicate fingers, the way one might hold a cigarette. Marianne wonders, suddenly, if Pauline is a smoker, or if she ever was one? She certainly drinks; the wine within the glass swirls red as blood.

Marianne is entangled in an armchair, drenched in Pauline’s shadow. She’s been texting Héloïse. Planning. It quickens a pace in Marianne’s chest, to be plotting something like this while her aunt is in the room. She wills a momentary distraction. “Will it actually happen, though?” she comments half-heartedly, in response to Pauline.

Pauline turns, casting her face into shadow. Her eyes are tired, her glasses hung on a chain around her neck. She eyes Marianne with a tilted head. “You don’t think so?”

“They keep saying it’ll be here, but the sky is only getting clearer,” Marianne puts her phone down on her stomach, shifting in her position so that her legs dangle over one side. “Maybe they’re making it up.”

Pauline brings the glass of wine to her lips. “That’s certainly a conspiracy.”

Marianne watches carefully as Pauline drinks. She hears herself asking: “Could I try some of that?”

Pauline’s eyebrows shoot up. She pulls the glass of wine away. After giving Marianne a moment to backtrack, which she doesn’t, Pauline squints. “Have you had any before?”

Marianne hesitates. “No. Dad used to say he’d let me try some on my seventeenth. But he missed it, so…”

Despite it all, a smile quirks Pauline’s lips. “Are you trying to guilt me?”

“No,” Marianne sounds indignant, though she doesn’t mean to. She thinks she might be in a bad mood. Maybe that’s where she got all this audacity. Or maybe she unwittingly borrowed it from Héloïse yesterday. This seems like a very Héloïse thing to do.

Pauline squints again, and inhales. She walks over, and hands the glass to Marianne. “Only a sip.”

Marianne takes the wine glass in both hands. Some part of her unconsciously thought that just holding it would make her feel adult and capable, but that part of her was wrong. It feels clumsy and clammy in her fingers. Still, she sits up and brings it to her mouth, and the invasive earthy scent fills her nose before she sips it.

The taste is heady. It coats her tongue in a way that is instantly unpleasant. Still, Marianne keeps her expression quelled as she swallows and hands the glass back. “Thank you,” she says, though she’s not sure that she is at all thankful.

Pauline takes the glass and hesitates. She squints like she’s about to say something, but then walks away without a word, out towards the kitchen.

Marianne pulls out her phone again.

M I just had my first taste of wine

H oh?  
how was it?

M Not very exciting  
I think it’s supposed to be an acquired taste or smth

H we could bring some with us and get acquired

Marianne smiles to herself.

M What a headline  
A pair of drunk runaway teenagers

In that last text, she at first types _drunk runaway lovebirds._ But Marianne sees the word ‘love’ written down, and it spikes her straight in the heart. It’s a truth she’s unsure how to reveal, but it’s likely not best done over text.

M Maybe not

H ur right  
this is batshit enough as it is.

\--

S hey have u heard from héloïse recently??

Marianne is lying in her bed in the blue afternoon, where she has spent the whole day so far. There’s a fan on her desk which isn’t actually helping that much, instead blowing hot air around the room. The balcony doors are open. Marianne has been doing research, watching YouTube videos. It has begun to set in that this plan is truly being put into action.

Sophie, however, doesn’t know this. Marianne rolls onto her side, holding the phone close to her face.

M I haven’t seen her since yesterday  
But I’ve been texting her

S wow cool so she’s texting u but ignoring me  
really great of her to do that

Marianne feels a pang of guilt. It’s as though Sophie somehow senses this through the phone, because she starts typing instantly.

S aaaaah im sorry!!!  
this isnt ur fault at all im just like  
worried about her u know???

M Its okay   
Ive been thinking about her a lot too

It’s not strictly a lie. Marianne thought about her in placement of all the sleep she didn’t get last night, as well as at breakfast in the morning. And in the shower she had after breakfast. She had a long shower. Marianne’s face goes red as she thinks about it, but she becomes distracted when Sophie sends another message.

S i get if u don’t want to but could u tell me what the situation is???   
like when she’ll be let out again

M Uh tbh I don’t know  
I think it’ll at least be until I’m gone

S oh   
when is that again?

M Friday

Yesterday morning, Friday was a different kind of deadline. Now it doesn’t mark a goodbye, but an action. A take-off.

S fuck!!!!!  
that’s so soon i didn’t even realise,,,,

M yeah :(

S do u wanna hang out tomorrow??? like even if it’s w/out Héloïse  
maybe we can get her to facetime or smth  
obvs ill be there to see u off on friday but

M Yeah I’d like that! Is one good for u?

S yeah that’s fine I can come over to urs first???

M Cool

Sophie is typing.

S hey I’m sorry that héloïse’s maman is being a dick  
about not letting her even say bye  
that really sucks and I don’t wanna be invasive or mushy but like  
i know u really like her  
and she really likes u  
so that’s shit

Marianne is punctured by this for several reasons. She feels a welling behind her eyes, and deep in her throat and chest.

But has to remind herself that, no. This isn’t the end. They’ll run, they’ll protest. They’ll figure something out.

M Hey thanks  
But don’t worry  
It’ll be okay :)

\--

“Marianne?”

Marianne looks up from her food. They’re eating at a small table out the back with the stars appearing up above. It’s perfectly lovely. A sort of send-off for Marianne, said Pauline. Marianne has felt so guilty this whole dinner that she has barely said a word.

Pauline’s plate is nearly cleared. She’s inspecting Marianne carefully, and for a moment Marianne is sure that they’ve been caught. That the goodbye she and Héloïse had on the doorstep of the chateau was their true farewell. She thinks that if this is the case, she will collapse into sobs and refuse to be moved. Become a sulking child, the kind she always insisted that she wasn’t. Her chest tightens at the possibility.

But instead, Pauline says: “Are you okay?”

It’s a blanket statement. Or a blanket question, she supposes. “Yes,” Marianne responds, but her tone is flat. Is she okay? She doesn’t think so. But it’s not that she’s deeply unhappy or incredibly overjoyed. She’s wavering somewhere else entirely.

Pauline inhales. “Is everything fine with Héloïse?”

“Yeah, fine. I’m seeing her tomorrow.” She hates how easily the lie comes to her.

Pauline nods slowly. She sticks a spoon of rice into her mouth. Swallows. She looks like she wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. Marianne leaves her hovering on that uncertain edge, unsure of how to help her. Unsure if she wants to.

\--

Marianne goes to the beach with Sophie, and actually brings her swimsuit for once. They go in the water, and splash each other and shriek. The sky is paler today, with speckled clouds.

Sophie tries to facetime Héloïse to no avail. Marianne does the same, and texts her.

Héloïse gets back.

H i can’t call

M :( why not?

H can’t lie to sophie

Marianne wishes the same was true for her. And yet, to Sophie’s face, she pretends that Héloïse never even saw any of her texts.

In the evening, they walk back. Shoes heavy with sand and hair half-dried in the sun.

“You’ll come by tomorrow,” Marianne asks as they come close to Sophie’s road. “Right?”

Sophie nods. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet on the walk from the beach, but Marianne mostly takes this as tiredness. Her eyes are half-lidded, and feet dragging.

Marianne isn’t tired. She got lots of sleep last night, knowing that she would have to wake again at three a.m. But this doesn’t prevent the wobbly, sickening feeling in her chest and throat. She’s become a better liar in the past few days than she has ever been in all her life.

When they stop at the top of Sophie’s road, Sophie asks, blatantly: “Won’t you come back?”

In the asking of that, she sounds like more of a fifteen-year-old than she ever has. Small, uncertain. Her eyes are soft and childlike.

Marianne is taken aback, but nods.

Sophie looks down. And then, without a change in expression, she moves forward and wraps her arms around Marianne, reaching up to her shoulders. Marianne leans down and returns the hug. She feels the shivery pressure in Sophie’s arms. The squeeze that tells Marianne she might suspect something. Maybe not the exact truth, but something. She’s a clever creature, is Sophie.

They pull away evenly, and Sophie nods once, satisfied. She walks off down her road, and Marianne turns herself away, in fear that if she lingers any longer she will go barrelling down the street and spill everything.

But no. She will bite her tongue for a few hours more.

\--

Marianne is packing when her phone rings.

She expects Héloïse. But instead, the name that lights up the screen is: _Maman._

Marianne spends at least three rings just staring before she picks up. And even then she doesn’t speak.

“Marianne?” asks a hesitant, familiar voice. Rich like dark chocolate, her dad once said.

Marianne swallows. “Yeah. Hi, maman.”

There’s a shuddery sigh on the other end. “Oh, hi _ma poulette!_ It’s so good to hear from you.”

Marianne is very stiff, sat in a heap on the floor amongst her clothes. “You too,” she returns faintly, like a ghost.

“I, uh…” the nervous voice swallows. “I’m really sorry that. That…”

 _What are you sorry for, maman? Which part?_ Marianne’s bitter thoughts batter their way forward, and probably would’ve come out of her mouth had it not been clamped shut. Her fingers tap on her thigh, a sort of soothing pattern.

“I heard you made friends?” Jeanne decides against apology in the end.

Marianne lets the pause hang for a moment. “Yeah.”

“That’s good,” she sounds sincere, “that’s really good.”

“Not that good,” Marianne hears herself say, sort of monotone. “I won’t see them again for ages, or maybe forever. So.”

“Oh,” says Jeanne, in that rattled, distant tone. The one she always uses when she doesn’t know what to say. And then, that disappears, and she sounds earnest. “That’s true. But it’s still good, _ma poulette._ You still have lots of good memories, and so do they, I’m sure.”

A pause. A crackle. “Memories will really help you through a lot,” she sounds distant again.

Yeah. Like memories have served Jeanne so well.

Marianne doesn’t say that. She doesn’t say anything, instead lets the phone hang by her ear; numb and stubborn. Hard-hearted, her dad would’ve said.

“I’ll let you go,” says Jeanne in a reluctant tone of voice. “I’m excited to see you tomorrow!”

Marianne scratches a line into her thigh. “Yeah,” is all she can manage.

“I’ll see you, love,” Jeanne says, _“Salut.”_

_“Salut.”_

Marianne keeps the phone there, listening to the fumbling air on the other end. She waits until she hears the click and a little longer after that.

\--

“You going up?”

Marianne turns on the stairs. She came down to put her empty glass in the dishwasher, and was going to creep up without interrupting Pauline, who is reading on the couch.

Marianne nods. And then, compelled, she asks: “What are you reading?”

Pauline’s eyebrows go up. She holds the cover up for Marianne to see. “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,” she recites. “Jules Verne.”

“Ah.”

“Have you read any of his?”

“No, I don’t read,” Marianne quirks a smile. “Thought you might have gotten that by now.”

Pauline puts the book to her lap. “Ah, but he’s a classic.”

“Exactly. If I was going to start reading, I wouldn’t start with the classics.”

“No? Why not?”

“Far too daunting. What if I don’t like it? I’ll be eaten alive.”

“By who? Me?” Pauline squints, “I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve been trying to read this book for years. It always bores me, and I give up, then pick it up a few months later.”

Marianne bursts into a grin, leaning against the banister. _“Vraiment?_ I thought you were a big reader.”

“I am! But I still get bored.”

“Shouldn’t you just read what interests you?” Marianne gestures vaguely to the book. “If you keep getting bored, then what’s the point? Maybe he’s just a bad writer.”

Pauline laughs, raising a hand to her mouth. “That’s a bold thing for a non-reader to say.”

Marianne grins, and shrugs, “Maybe that wine is finally getting to me.”

Pauline shrugs, smiling. “Ah. Well, you might have a point.”

“That he’s bad?”

“No. Just that he’s not for me.”

Marianne nods. Pauline puts the book on her lap, and stretches. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” she says passingly.

Marianne feels a sudden, violent wrenching in her chest. She swallows, curbing the sudden admittance that might spill through her clenched teeth. She can’t say ‘goodnight’ or ‘goodbye’ for fear of what her voice might sound like. So instead, she nods, and scarpers up the stairs.

Inside her room, Marianne’s bag is packed. It’s small and light, not the suitcase full of clothes she brought with her to the island. Instead something fit for a long walk, for a few days of food and water. Her satchel with money, her sketchbook, pencils, so on. The pit in her stomach grows huge and black. She sinks, slowly, to the floorboards.

Her phone buzzes. She picks it up slowly, fearing that it’s her mother on the other end.

H is ur alarm set?

Marianne softens.

M It is  
3 a.m

H okay

She’s typing and typing.

H sorry agh  
i’m just  
I don’t know what I want to say

M That’s okay!  
Me neither

H are u ready for this?

Marianne sucks in a breath. Shuts her eyes.

M Yes

She might just mean it.


	18. how to commence several bad ideas

Marianne waits outside Héloïse’s house in the dark. She hops from foot to foot in the grass, at one point hunkering down and breathing deep. Despite all her external fidgeting, her mind is blank. She only knows only to check her phone every thirty seconds, and to listen for an opening door.

When Marianne hears it she is facing away, towards the long stretch of field and the town where her aunt sleeps, oblivious. There’s a great shifting, creaking, and Marianne turns with a flourish to see the dark shape in the doorway.

It stalls, and then comes forward, rushing down the steps until it becomes Héloïse. Her ponytail swishes and her shoes scuff at the dirt.

It’s only now that Marianne realises just how much she has missed Héloïse, even in the short while they were apart. The days felt like years, to not see her face or movement. The swing of her arms when she walks, the way her face brightens, even in the night. Marianne is walking towards her before she knows it, and sort of jumps at Héloïse, knocking her backwards. They sway, Héloïse rubbing Marianne’s back. She laughs, muffled, into Marianne’s hair, and Marianne loves that sound. She loves it, she loves it so.

Marianne pulls back after a moment, still holding onto Héloïse, and Héloïse’s eyes are wide. “What was that for?” she asks, head tilted, grinning like a child.

Her joy is contagious. Marianne smiles. “I missed you.”

Héloïse’s eyes grow soft, flickering all over Marianne’s face. “I missed you,” she hesitates, the grin melting and draws her lower lip between her teeth. “You’re sure about this?”

Marianne can’t seem to think. She’s a rush of cool air. “I’m sure,” she says, and it doesn’t sound like a lie.

Héloïse nods, and lets go of Marianne’s shoulders. Marianne too drops her arms and watches as Héloïse hunkers down to the grass. She pulls the rucksack off her back, and unzips it. After digging blindly through, she pulls out a small, black, tube-shaped object. Wordlessly, she sticks her arm up towards Marianne, with the object clasped within her palm. Marianne takes it from Héloïse as she continues to dig through her bag, and as Marianne squints it becomes apparent that this is a flashlight.

“Clever,” Marianne observes and finds the switch to turn it on. She points the yellow light down at Héloïse, so she can see while searching through her bag. Héloïse mutters a _“Merci.”_

Eventually, she comes upon a second flashlight and zips her rucksack. She stands again, throwing it back onto her back while Marianne shines the light in her face. Héloïse meets her eyes, and smiles, dark eyebrows raised.

Marianne takes her in. There are purple bags under her eyes, and she has a new spot beside her nose. Her lips are pink, eyelids half-closed. She’s wearing a brown Tintin hoodie. “You like Tintin?”

Héloïse looks down at herself. _“Oui._ I was the biggest fan when I was six,” she looks back to Marianne with a tilted head. “I forget there are things you don’t know about me.”

Marianne shrugs, still shining the torch. “There are lots of things we don’t know about each other.”

“Ah, you have lots of scandalous secrets, I’m sure?” Héloïse grins, blinking in the glare. “Turn the light on yourself.”

Marianne does as she’s told. Héloïse, draped in darkness again, takes in the sight. Marianne, in a form of jest, shines the torch under her chin and widens her eyes.

Héloïse laughs and pretends to cower. “Oh, you’re so scary! Are you going to kill me now?”

“Of course, that’s my plan. Seduce and then kill you,” Marianne says between giggles.

Héloïse grins, straightening up. “That’s really dark, you know. This would be perfect timing.”

“True. I won’t kill you.”

“You promise?”

“Yes. Do you?”

Héloïse puts her hand over her heart, tilting her head back. “I promise not to kill you, Marianne.”

Marianne nods, and drops the flashlight from under her chin, shining it before her. She holds out her other hand. Héloïse takes it without looking down. They face away, at the world that stretches before them.

Marianne glances at Héloïse. “And you’re sure? I never asked you.”

Héloïse nods. “I’ve left the note and everything.”

“And it’s only until they give in.”

“Which won’t be long.”

The plan is so clear until it comes to where they’re going. Héloïse insists that she knows the island, that they can walk and walk, hide and sleep. She seems entirely unafraid. Marianne pretends to be the same. She squeezes Héloïse’s hand, and Héloïse squeezes back.

And off they go.

\--

They walk and walk, and walk some more. The field is endless, dark, and expansive. When they come upon a road and path, Héloïse veers off, tugging Marianne with her. The sky is black and swallowing, full up with blinking stars.

They’re not tired, somehow. Or at least, Marianne isn’t, and Héloïse insists that she’s not. Marianne’s legs are beginning to strain, though, especially as they come upon small hills. The island is bigger than she expected it to be, though she supposes they couldn’t find the other side within only two hours. But that doesn’t matter. It’s not like they’re trying to get anywhere.

The conversation dips in and out. Sometimes, they simply walk in silence. Sometimes, one thinks of something.

“What do you want to do?” Marianne asks from nowhere.

She turns to face Héloïse, who is frowning ahead. “When I grow up?” she asks with a surprising lightness, and a faint smile appears on her lips. Marianne mirrors it and patiently awaits a response. Héloïse sighs. “I don’t like that question.”

“Why not?”

“Because… I don’t know the answer,” Héloïse admits and shrugs. “Were you one of those annoying kids who always knew what she wanted?”

Marianne snorts and shakes her head at the audacity. “Yes,” she admits, dryly, looking ahead once again. Is it just her mind, or is the sky brightening? “For as long as I can remember I’ve said painter. I think at first I was just copying my dad.”

“Not your maman?” Héloïse asks.

Marianne stiffens a little at the mention of her but quickly shakes it off. “No,” she manages, “she was a lawyer. I had no interest, as a two-year-old.”

“Now?”

“Still no interest.”

Héloïse laughs. “Does she wish you were interested?”

Marianne considers this. Steps carefully over a rock lodged in the grass. “Not particularly. Being a lawyer isn’t her passion, it’s just her job. Though I think she might wish I was interested in a more profitable field. But she’d never tell me that. She’s too supportive.”

Héloïse nods. “She sounds like a good mother.”

Marianne pauses. Their hands swing, entwined between them. After a stretch of quiet, Héloïse speaks again: “Is that not right?” When Marianne looks, her eyes are big.

Marianne smiles and shakes her head. “No, you’re right,” she says, but even then she doubts herself. “I don’t think… she’s not perfect. But she’s a person, so that’s to be expected.”

Héloïse nods. “I don’t know if I’d want to be one.”

Marianne raises her eyebrows. “A person?”

Héloïse laughs. “No, a mother. But that too, sometimes. I don’t know how I feel about kids,” she smiles into the dark. “Good thing I’ll never get pregnant.”

Marianne brightens, pulling at the strap of her backpack. “And you’re seventeen. You won’t have to think about that for years.”

“Well it’ll be expected of me, if maman oversees my life,” the smiles drops off her face, and her eyes turn hard and serious.

Marianne looks at her and then squeezes her hand. What more can she do?

\--

The sky does get lighter and lighter. Marianne starts to think that, maybe soon, Pauline will notice that Marianne is gone.

Héloïse doesn’t seem worried about that. When the sun appears up ahead on the flat horizon, she drops her flashlight and backpack and runs towards it. She spins in the wild grass, arms up. Marianne has switched her flashlight off, and lets it hang, heavy by her side as she smiles, and approaches Héloïse slowly.

Héloïse waves her arms to soundless music. Her eyes are shut, a soft smile on her face. “Is this how they dance at parties?” she asks.

“You think I know?”

“You’ve been to parties.”

“Not the dancing kind.”

Héloïse opens her eyes and drops her arms. She is half-swallowed in shadow and half-soaked in sun. Her expression becomes inquisitive as she takes Marianne in. Somewhere far off, a bird is singing.

She moves towards Marianne slowly, shoes swishing through the grass. When they meet each other, Héloïse reaches down and takes the flashlight from Marianne’s hand. She promptly drops it to the grass. Marianne huffs a soundless laugh, and Héloïse looks at her expectantly. She understands, and takes her backpack and satchel off, dropping them in the grass, next to the torch. When Marianne straightens, she looks at Héloïse, who is very close, and tilts her head in a teasing manner.

Héloïse reaches down, and Marianne’s chest tightens for a very brief moment. But Héloïse takes her hand and knits their fingers together. She holds it up between them, and puts her other hand on Marianne’s back, just below her left shoulder blade. In doing so, Marianne raises her arm, almost automatically, and ends up with her hand on Héloïse’s shoulder.

And Héloïse, inhaling ever so slightly and still appearing rather serious, starts to move. She sways to the left, dipping her head the other way, and Marianne goes with her. Their feet figure it out along the way.

Dancing, Marianne realises. She nearly laughs. “When did you learn this?”

“I could ask you the same,” comments Héloïse, her voice quiet and husky.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Marianne admits freely, even as they move again.

“You’re good.”

“I’m trying not to think about what I’m doing.”

Héloïse smiles softly. They dance as the sun crawls up the sky, and as the breeze blows. By all means, this should be awkward. By all means, this should be mad.

But right now, in all the world, there is only Héloïse. Marianne realises, abruptly, that they have not kissed in three days. So without much thought to it, Marianne moves her head and kisses Héloïse on the mouth.

They keep dancing, though not very well, and not for long, as Héloïse becomes distracted and untangles their clasped hands. She reaches for the back of Marianne’s neck and holds her there. Marianne reaches around her shoulders. The swaying stops. They breathe each other in and everything, everything melts away.

Marianne’s heart is in her throat. Her skin is prickly, and Héloïse is in her mouth.

Héloïse, Héloïse. A name she once heard in passing, once thought nothing of. And now she will never hear it that way again. Does she think the same, and is it selfish to wonder that? Is it selfish to hope that Héloïse is as in love as Marianne is?

In love. How quickly that came to mind, how easily. She bats it away, and leans into Héloïse, bringing tongue into the wordless conversation.

And then Héloïse moans into her mouth.

Marianne pulls away. Héloïse’s eyes shoot open, and, rather annoyed, she asks: “What?”

Marianne is flushed and jittery, and this is reflected in her awkward laugh. She pulls one hand up to her face, pushing strands of her fringe away from her sweaty forehead. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” Héloïse seems genuinely perplexed.

“Because we’re in a field!” Marianne protests, even though she sort of forgot this fact until a few seconds ago. “And because I haven’t… googled anything or done enough research. But mostly because we’re in a field.”

Héloïse tilts her head, eyes narrowed. “Does that matter?”

“Yes!” Marianne exclaims. Because it does, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t it matter?

Then again, she supposes, it’s not the strangest thing ever.

And it’s not like she doesn’t want to, very badly.

Héloïse is looking at her in a very particular way. And then she inhales through her nose, serious again. “I don’t want to rush you, I’m sorry. Of course, not until you want to.”

“No, I want to,” hurries Marianne.

Héloïse is still pressed against her. Marianne thinks of that night at her house. Her bare chest, her rolling shoulders. The freckle on the right side of her ribs.

Oh god, yeah. She really wants to.

It must be clear to Héloïse because her eyes turn half-lidded. Daring. She leans around to Marianne’s ear, and whispers:

“It’s not the first bad idea we’ve had.”

Marianne has her mouth open. When Héloïse pulls away from her ear, she moves slowly and comes extremely close to Marianne’s face. Marianne watches her eyes flicker up and down. Héloïse bites her bottom lip.

Marianne squints.

With a decided, short exhale, she gives into herself.

Leans in. Draws the lip from between Héloïse’s teeth, and kisses her fearlessly.

And Héloïse likes that.

Héloïse really, really likes that.

\--

The grass bothers Marianne far less than she thought it would.

There are more important things to focus on.

\--

“You’re wearing the earring.”

Héloïse turns her head and smiles. She is sat up, half-bathed in the sun, which has now turned the sky a very pale shade of blue. There are clouds in the sky this morning, but it doesn’t detract from Héloïse’s beauty; nothing could. Héloïse has put her top back on, to Marianne’s immense disappointment. She is hunched over her bag, which is unzipped, and woke Marianne from a sleep she can’t remember entering. Only in this new light can Marianne see the glint of green hung from Héloïse’s right earlobe.

“I am,” says Héloïse quietly, leaning her head onto one shoulder. She glances down Marianne’s body and her cheeks go pink. Quickly, she turns back and rustles through her bag. “Aren’t you cold?”

Marianne is cold. Before she can answer, Héloïse tosses her a thin, folded blanket. Marianne smiles, embarrassed, and mumbles a “Thank you.” She sits up and quickly pulls on her tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt, but keeps the blanket around her shoulders. She sees her bag at her feet and pulls it onto her lap. She fumbles through the front pocket and finds it, emerald green in the corner.

She pulls it out and flashes it, with a smile, to Héloïse. Héloïse glances up and her eyes brighten. She pulls her knees up to her chest and lies her cheek there. “What’ll you do with it?” she asks.

Marianne thinks on this and answers as she puts the earring back and zips the pocket shut. “I’m not sure yet, but I’m thinking maybe a necklace.”

“That’s a good idea,” says Héloïse.

Marianne pushes her bag away and looks back over her shoulder. They grin at each other, almost uncontrollably. Héloïse’s fingernails are between her teeth.

They are both feeling it. The audacity of what they’ve just done together; a secret shared between them. Marianne feels no anxiety because she knows they are both okay. And she knows that Héloïse would never tell a soul and that Marianne will keep the same promise. She now knows things that, for the time being, nobody else knows. She has heard things, seen things, been places that Héloïse shared with her, willingly, lovingly. It makes Marianne’s head spin.

She’s fairly sure that she nearly let the word slip a few times. That dreaded confession, those three words that she means more with every passing moment. It would’ve been awful timing. But she would’ve meant it, she really would.

Héloïse breaks the spell and moves her arm from her lap, and feels around in the grass. She pulls up a small book, which Marianne recognizes. “Come here,” she asks, softly.

Marianne does. She lies back, as does Héloïse, and they make themselves comfortable.

“Are you tired?” asks Héloïse, a whisper.

Marianne nods. She truly is.

Héloïse puts their foreheads together for a moment. “Shut your eyes,” she says under her breath.

When Marianne’s eyes are closed, she hears pages being flicked through. An inhale.

“Because of Winn--Dixie,” Héloïse reads softly, in English. “By Kate DiCamillo.”

The beginning of a story.

Marianne listens until she doesn’t anymore. Until she is enveloped in sleep; feathery and welcoming. But even then, she hears Héloïse’s voice in her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of times I was YELLING at these two this chapter and then being like ‘I’m the one writing this what am I on about’.   
> I know they’re dumb. Still love them though.


	19. how to regret

When Marianne wakes, it takes a few moments before she begins to notice odd things. Things such as the grass tickling her face, or the grey drapery of sky that hangs overhead. The blanket she is tangled in is thin and fleecy and not how it was when she went to sleep. The murmuring voice that speaks far off, that Marianne is too drowsy to listen to properly.

All these things provoke memories one by one until Marianne puts together the events. When she remembers that she has run away, Marianne feels an overwhelming wave of dread, pressing her to the earth. But then, she recalls other things. Reasons, plans. Crinkled eyes, both blue and green, and a body covered in skin, with moles and freckles that she kissed.

Marianne smiles despite herself, shutting her eyes in an attempt to recover that last part. Héloïse’s rhythmic breathing. Her nails dug into Marianne’s back. Her hands, her hair. So much of her, enough to fill more than ten pages.

Marianne pulls gently at a strand of grass and opens her eyes in fear of going even redder than she is now. She’s nearly embarrassed but mostly delighted.

It’s then that she starts to hear the voice that is speaking. It’s Héloïse of course, mumbled and far away. Low and serious.

Shaky, even. Marianne stills, but just as she starts to listen Héloïse stops speaking. After a moment’s silence comes trudging feet. Marianne remembers to move, and rolls onto her back, blinking as the field floods into view.

Héloïse approaches just in time. She’s dressed, hair tied back again. Her phone is gripped in her hand, and when she crouches Marianne sees the lines in her forehead.

“Come,” she whispers in that soft voice, the one that is only ever reserved for Marianne. Héloïse kneels for a moment and reaches out to fondly stroke Marianne’s throat. Marianne, still half-asleep, can only think to pet Héloïse’s knuckles in return.

She means to ask what’s wrong, but instead, Héloïse says: “Sophie called. We need to keep going.”

Marianne does her best to ignore the shivery horror that builds slowly in her stomach. Instead, in her expression, she secures something that might be reassurance or certainty, when she feels neither of.

Héloïse doesn’t know that. She doesn’t need to.

\--

Marianne is afraid to look at her phone, so she keeps it in her bag like she did the day before. Héloïse is quiet, concentrated. After walking for some time, she asks: “Are you good with maps?”

Marianne isn’t bad. Héloïse pulls a map of the island out of her bag, and they spend some time trying to figure it out between the two of them. Eventually, Héloïse seems satisfied, and decides that they will find the sea and stay there for another night.

\--

This day passes slowly. Maybe because both girls are afraid to check their phones. Maybe because the sun has been hidden by clouds that grow thicker and darker. Marianne tries not to think about that.

Sleeping on the grass didn’t do much for their muscles. Both girls are quiet, groggy. Marianne finds less and less ways to keep herself distracted. She thinks of Pauline, of Sophie, of her mother. Of Héloïse’s mother. Of her dad.

She begins to feel sick. Héloïse looks to her at one point.

“Are you okay?” she asks. Of course she can tell.

Marianne nods.

Héloïse blinks. “You’re a terrible liar,” she mumbles, but doesn’t press further. Instead, she reaches out and takes Marianne’s hand. And they walk like that for some more time.

\--

When they arrive at the cliffs, both are exhausted. Héloïse drops her bag. Marianne collapses, dramatically, into the grass. By some force of magic, Héloïse laughs. Marianne doesn’t even have the energy to smile back.

Héloïse pulls her up. “We should make a fire,” she says. There’s a spark in her tired eyes.

“Do you know how?”

“I brought some firewood from my house, and a lighter.”

“You brought a lighter?!” Marianne’s eyebrows shoot up.

“What?” Héloïse seems amused.

“That’s dangerous! Where is it, just loose in your bag?”

“No, it’s in the side pocket, here. When did you become such a mother?” Héloïse’s eyes widen in teasing, and she struggles to contain a grin. “Do you think I’ll find it sexy?”

Marianne purses her lips, feigning annoyance even as Héloïse laughs at her. She has her arms folded and remains silent; too exhausted to think of a good comeback.

After Héloïse has stopped finding herself hilarious, she steps forward and unfolds Marianne’s arms, taking a forearm in each hand. She holds them there and stares at Marianne until her stony expression cracks, and a smile flutters on her cheeks. Héloïse mirrors this expression for a moment but then turns gentle.

“Are you okay?” she asks for the second time today.

Marianne doesn’t trust her mouth. She simply nods.

“Tired?”

That’s not untrue. Marianne nods again. Héloïse nods too, though she doesn’t look convinced. “We can make the fire later,” she suggests. “Let’s rest first.”

\--

Marianne can’t sleep. When she shuts her eyes, she loses control over her thoughts, and all the guilt and doubt, and ‘is it too late to back out?’ comes barrelling at her. So instead she distracts herself by helping Héloïse organize the firewood. And then Héloïse reads some more, and Marianne tries to forget. She tries to ignore the cold and the rain clouds. The barrage of fear.

She tries and tries.

But as evening approaches and the clouds lie heavy overhead, she can’t help it. Marianne takes her phone out from her bag and turns it on. Héloïse watches but doesn’t stop her.

A million messages and missed calls. Marianne scrolls with one shaky finger, numb in the face.

Sophie. Pauline. Jeanne.

S marianne im fucking begging u tell me where u are  
please  
im really scared please

Her throat rattles. A pressure sits behind her eyes, an awful, familiar welling. She stares hard at her phone and silently begs Héloïse to not ask her if she’s okay. She knows that will be too much.

Héloïse doesn’t say a word. But Marianne knows she’s watching.

The silence is interrupted by loud ringing from the phone in Marianne’s sweaty hand. The screen goes black before it shows the decline or accept, and the caller, who is Pauline of course. Pauline, ringing for the one-hundredth time.

Marianne stares for three rings. And then, without thinking, she accepts the call and brings it to her ear.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. “Marianne?” comes a crackly, shocked voice. Some strained version of her aunt.

Marianne finds she can’t respond. She sits there and stares, glassy-eyed at her lap, listening to Pauline ask for her on the other end again.

“Fuck,” Pauline inhales shakily, and Marianne is overwhelmed by her obvious fear and upset. _“Crisse,_ I’ve got her, she answered, I… Marianne, are you there?”

Marianne is frozen.

Pauline inhales again. Her voice is suddenly strict and steady. “Marianne, can you tell me where you are?”

She says nothing. There’s fumbling on the other end, some mumbled words Marianne doesn’t catch.

Pauline’s breathing again. “Are you safe?” she begs, shuddery. When Marianne says nothing, Pauline asks again, desperate. “Please, tell me that if nothing else. Are you safe?”

Marianne swallows. And manages: _“Oui,”_ before promptly hanging up and dropping her phone onto the grass.

Marianne’s mind is blank. A white sheet of paper. The tears sit, undecided, in her eyes. Her throat hurts.

She nearly forgets that Héloïse is there until she speaks.

“Do you miss her?” asks Héloïse. Marianne looks up to see her sat opposite, on the other side of the unlit campfire. Her face is pale, her fingers playing with the drawstrings of her hoodie.

Marianne swallows. “Yes,” she croaks.

Héloïse blinks. “Do you miss your mother?”

Marianne hesitates. Nods once.

Héloïse doesn’t move her gaze. “Do you want to go back?” she asks eventually, without a hint of malice.

Instinctually, Marianne shakes her head.

“It’s okay if you do,” says Héloïse, and she sounds completely earnest.

But Marianne is firm. “I want to be with you,” she says, regaining some stability in her tone of voice.

Héloïse presses her lips together. She is hunched over and dips her head for a moment before meeting Marianne’s eyes again. “But you have a family.”

“So do you,” Marianne says.

Something changes in Héloïse then. Her nose twitches. Darkness not unlike the one hanging above their heads comes over her face. When she speaks, her voice is gruff. “You call her my family?”

Marianne remains still. There’s something numb and bitter inside her chest. She would love to run away now, and lock herself in her room. Calm down and come back rational and well-rested. But there’s no room, no time. The words are already flooded from her mouth, in a tone more defensive than intended. “She’s your mother. She cares about you.”

Héloïse scoffs. Marianne becomes instantly pale, and watches as Héloïse stiffens, sitting in that unnervingly perfect posture. She stares at Marianne like she is seeing her for the first time.

“She doesn’t care about me,” Héloïse says, bitter-tongued. “Didn’t you hear how she spoke?”

Marianne might be sick. She feels light-headed, dizzy. She lets quiet overwhelm for a moment longer, but can’t resist pressing forward. “What about Sophie?” she asks and surprises herself by the aggression in her tone. Is she angry?

Héloïse remains still and stony-faced. “Sophie will be fine,” she states.

“She’s already lost a cousin,” Marianne spits. She is sat straight now, glaring at Héloïse. All of this feels awfully wrong. Marianne hates this. Why isn’t she stopping?

“And I lost a sister!” Héloïse’s eyes are split wide open, her fists clenched on her lap. “Why are you being like this?”

“Because I know you miss them!”

Héloïse scoffs, and Marianne hates that sound. She hates it, hates it. “I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

Héloïse shakes her head. Her eyes are glistening, and her jaw is clenched.

Marianne inhales. “Your mother doesn’t hate you.”

“Are you on her side now?” spits Héloïse, her voice trembling.

Marianne is irked again. “No, I just-“

“She hates me.”

Marianne is greeted by a fleeting memory. Antonia, crumpled in the doorway of Héloïse’s house. It’s an image she didn’t know she was being plagued by. Marianne bursts. “You told her that you wish she had died,” she spits the words like hot coals. “How do you think that feels?”

Héloïse freezes. Even the tears in her eyes stop wobbling. It seemingly takes her an age to respond. “I didn’t mean it,” is what she comes out with, her voice low and trembling.

“She doesn’t know that,” growls Marianne.

“You don’t know anything!” barks Héloïse suddenly, and Marianne flinches from her statue position.

Héloïse trembles before her with red-hot rage and the words spill from her mouth like boiling water. “You don’t know what any of this is like,” she hisses, and a salty tear shivers down her cheek. She swallows, fixing Marianne with that red-eyed stare, so full of fury that it could turn man to stone. “What she wants me to go on to do! How can she love me when she wants those things for me? When she pushed Suzie over the edge of that fucking cliff?”

Héloïse heaves. She plants a hand on each knee and digs her nails in.

Marianne has forgotten how to be a person. She feels hollow.

And then, Héloïse rushes to stand on both feet. She steps backwards, not looking away from Marianne for one moment.

“I don’t have a family,” she tells Marianne with bite, “You have a family.”

And then off she goes. She walks to the cliffs.

And Marianne sits there, completely frozen.

\--

She doesn’t know how much time has passed before that awful thought crosses her mind.

Cliffs.

She went to the cliffs.

To watch the water?

Or.

Or to –

Marianne stumbles quickly to her feet. The sky feels heavy on her shoulders, and she staggers underneath it. Her throat is still sore, her teeth chattery. She can’t breathe, even as the breeze blows in her face when she races to the cliffs.

Stony, overlooking the sand, and a great stretch of blue sea. Marianne can’t see her.

Héloïse? “Héloïse!” Marianne’s croaky voice is swept away by the sea air.

She can’t see Héloïse.

Marianne is only her heart. And she is going to break in two.

She races right to the edge and along it, watching the sand, the water.

Too terrified to look straight down.

What will she see if she looks down?

And then, as she’s about to descend, Marianne sees a shape out at sea. Not far from shore. She’s stood in water that is still shallow, in her clothes.

Marianne runs. She trips, grazes her knee, gets up. She runs awkwardly through the dry sand and rips into the sea, just as bitter and cold as the tears on her face.

She’s still angry. She realises this the closer she gets. But first, she reaches Héloïse when she’s knee-deep in the grey ocean, Marianne throws her arms around her just as a sob escapes her throat.

“I’m so fucking mad at you,” she hisses hot breath into Héloïse’s neck and shudders with guilt and relief. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so angry.”

Héloïse does not turn around. Maybe she’s a statue. She feels as marble and cold and looks just as beautiful. But no, Marianne feels her chest rise. She hears her teeth chatter, feels each individual strand of yellow hair as it tangles in the breeze.

She doesn’t know what compels her. But Marianne drops her arms and stands separate from Héloïse. Over the wind, which has grown louder and more insistent, Marianne makes her voice heard.

“You think I want to go home?” she near-shouts, the cold water lapping at her clenched fists. “Maman can’t look me in the eye because I remind her of my dad. Every time I pick up a paintbrush everybody looks at me like I’m him.”

That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the truth in its most awful, bitter form. Marianne sobs. Her face is all sand and salt and snot.

Héloïse turns around and holds her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against the crashing sea. Her shaky fingers stroke the nape of Marianne’s neck, where the ends of her hair have curled. Héloïse puts their foreheads together and breathes. “I’m sorry too. I’m sorry.”

Marianne believes her. She weeps nonetheless. Maybe this cry was caught in her throat for hours. For days or maybe months. Since her dad’s heart stopped beating.

Maybe this is so. _Peut-être_.

And maybe that’s why, underneath all her grief and frustration, Marianne feels the cool wash of relief upon each exhale.

\--

When they return to shore, Héloïse grabs Marianne’s hand again and pulls her back for a moment. She is wrecked in every sense of the word.

“Uh,” she begins, fumbling with her words. “I don’t want her to die.”

Héloïse blinks. Her whole face crumbles, and she shakes her head. A great flood begins to pour. There is a pleading about her crinkled eyes.

“I don’t want anyone else to go,” she mumbles.

Marianne rocks Héloïse. Strokes her face. The ocean and sky roar together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus christ. I can’t believe I went into this wanting to write a cute fluffy story and now I’m devastating myself!!! Sorry but also I enjoy writing arguments in a sick kind of way.  
> Let me know your thoughts as always (you have permission to be mad) and thank you for reading!


	20. how to remember

Héloïse lights the fire, and it burns up to the clouds, which grow darker with each passing moment. Marianne reckons there isn’t long before the hot flames puff out in the sharp wind, which bites and cracks her cheeks. She is half-soaked from the ocean and still shivering.

With a thin blanket over their shoulders, they huddle together.

“Like penguins,” says Héloïse.

 _“Quoi?”_ asks Marianne. Her voice is hoarse.

“Penguins huddle together when they’re cold,” Héloïse states, “It’s fact. Suzie and I used to do that in winter when the house got freezing.”

Marianne’s heart hurts.

\--

Héloïse’s forearm is bare and outstretched. Marianne takes it onto her lap and starts to trace drawings on it with her finger. She draws faces. Eyes and noses that belong to nobody she has ever met. Ears, and their intricate patterns. Bodies of men and women that curve and dip, swell and shrink. There are no straight lines on the human body.

She does the same on tables at school, or on her own leg when she’s at the house of someone she doesn’t know well. At her dad’s funeral, she caught herself drawing a hand on the wall. Though, of course, it wasn’t a stranger’s hand. It was his.

Héloïse doesn’t question it. She shuts her eyes and leans into Marianne.

\--

Héloïse lies her head on Marianne’s lap, staring at her phone. Marianne sits up, bleary-eyed against the sparking flames. There’s a guttural rumble from up above.

 _Where has summer gone?_ she wonders. She nearly asks it aloud, but can’t seem to force the words from her mouth. And how would you answer that anyway?

But Héloïse says something just as perplexing and wonderful, having laid her phone down on her stomach. “I always used to think,” she begins, “that if I was going to die, I would want to be set on fire.”

What a confession to make. It should startle Marianne more than it does. Maybe she’s too tired.

“That would hurt,” is what Marianne responds with.

Héloïse makes a low sound, and her voice is laced through with kind sarcasm, if there’s such a thing. “You’re the queen of observations. How would you want to die?”

Marianne blinks. The fire hurts her eyes, suddenly. “I don’t want to die.”

She looks down at Héloïse, who is staring up at her. Her face is wiped with exhaustion, but her eyes are soft. She tilts her head, resting her cheek on Marianne’s thigh. “Me neither,” she says. Marianne knows it’s not a lie.

Marianne considers sleep. Gently, she moves Héloïse’s head from her lap, and lies beside her. She pulls the blanket from her shoulders so that it covers them both. And they face each other. But unlike that night in Héloïse’s room, there’s a solemnity to this. And the sky is much angrier tonight.

Héloïse blinks. Her eyes are shiny. “I told Sophie where we are,” she says.

Marianne stares at her. “Why?” she asks in a whisper.

Héloïse swallows. “Because you have to go home,” her voice is low and knowing. She inhales through her nose. “And I have to go to Milan.”

Marianne gazes at the pale eyes, the hair torn up by sea and air. The wind bites. The grass tickles her cheek. The ground is hard and uncomfortable. She’s so tired.

So she says: “I know you’re right. But I hate it.”

Héloïse presses her lips together. Her eyes are red. Her shoulders trembling. Marianne can’t tell her it’s okay, because it’s not. This is going to hurt.

Marianne watches her. “Do you think we’re stupid,” she whispers, “to want this?”

Héloïse isn’t shocked by the question and she doesn’t think hard before answering. “No. Do you?”

Marianne knows the answer. But she doesn’t know how to get the words out of her mouth.

The truth is that somewhere in these weeks, her heart began to open again, when she couldn’t remember shutting it in the first place. It was locked away from beauty and intrigue and want. She didn’t want to hope when she knew that people could leave her abruptly, torn away from her arms and her life, maybe never to be seen again.

But what’s the point of locking yourself away?

Her heart is open now.

But how can she heave it into her mouth?

She must try. Marianne swallows, her throat scratchy.

“I know I should think so,” Marianne says, staring unashamed at Héloïse. “Because two weeks ago I would have found this all embarrassing and laughable. And everybody else would say that we’re being overdramatic. They would say I’m too young to know what love is and that I’ll forget about you once I get home.”

There’s a tear on Héloïse’s red cheek. It seems that the dark sky has stilled. The wind has paused in its thrashing.

Marianne blinks, soft. Completely certain. “But I just know I’m never going to forget about you.”

Héloïse blinks. She dares to smile through a wash of sorrow. Marianne does the same.

\--

They’re asleep when the fire is blown out.

\--

It’s the preliminary raindrop that wakes Marianne. And the sirens that wake Héloïse. The blaring blue and red bleeds through the night.

\--

It’s in the police car, their hands clasped on the seat between them, that the storm breaks. It roars and wails outside the window. But instead, Marianne watches Héloïse as she stares out the glass.

She can’t tell what the tears that shiver down Héloïse’s cheeks are borne of. Is it sorrow? Awe? Relief?

It doesn’t matter, Marianne supposes. She squeezes Héloïse’s hand no matter the reason.

\--

When they arrive, most of the town is awake, stood in their doorways watching. It’s embarrassing. Héloïse manages to make some semblance of a joke, trying to sink into her seat, and Marianne smiles.

They let go of each other when they get out of each car door outside Pauline’s house and are immediately battered by the rain. Marianne makes no attempt to shield herself, instead standing there and getting soaked. The cold subsides, and she is soon submerged in numbness.

Antonia emerges through the blackness, from Pauline’s warmly lit open door. It’s the first time Marianne has seen her somewhere that isn’t her own house, and it’s a little jarring. She’s difficult to make out in the dark and with the speed she moves onto the road. She is dead-set on one thing, on Héloïse, who allows herself to be bowled over by an enormous hug. Marianne struggles to tell over the lashing rain, but she’s fairly certain there are tears involved. And Héloïse hugs her mother in return.

And while distracted, Marianne too is knocked over by a great force. She is momentarily shocked before knowing who it must be. She’s never been hugged by Pauline before, and it’s contradictory to her usually cool and wise persona. The hold she has on Marianne is tight and crushing, almost painful. It squeezes all the guilt from Marianne, and she starts to blubber a million apologies that can’t be heard over the rain.

When Pauline pulls away, she too is soaked but doesn’t seem to care. Her eyes are puffy. She’s not wearing glasses. She holds Marianne’s face in her two hands and throws her head back.

“Thank fucking god!” she shouts and barks a surprise laugh. Then Pauline pulls her in again and yells more things that Marianne is too numb and relieved to hear. They will get all that over with later.

One thing Marianne does hear is a mention of “…Jeanne on the phone.” Marianne nods again and again. Her mother, her poor mother.

Before they go in, Marianne turns around to look for Héloïse. Maybe she’ll come inside. At first, Marianne thinks that she’s hidden in the dark.

But Marianne searches and searches. She drips and shivers and the wind beats her face. She stares at the stormy night.

Héloïse is nowhere. Neither is Antonia. Only policemen and concerned neighbours.

But if Héloïse has gone home, then when will Marianne say goodbye?

Marianne stands there and lets the storm roar in her face.

 _You fool,_ say the stars, hidden behind the dark clouds. _You fool, you fool._

Marianne shuts her eyes.

She is such a fool.


	21. how to swim

“Is it because of me?”

Marianne’s voice is wispy. On her lap lies one of her hands, the other holding the phone that is pressed to her ear. Her heart remains still in her chest as she awaits Héloïse’s response.

“Partly,” admits Héloïse. Marianne shuts her eyes. “But also because of the weather. It’s not like anybody is going out at the moment.”

This is true. The storm has not relented in the slightest since yesterday. The rain lashes aggressively at the balcony doors. The ocean has swollen. Wind whistles. Behind it all, morning has arrived. Marianne’s last morning on the island. She had gotten one last day, mostly consisting of talking with her mother and with Pauline, with showering and calling relatives and sleeping. She slept a lot. She hasn’t gotten to speak with Héloïse until now.

“I can’t blame her,” Marianne admits and finds that she is smiling by some miracle. “I wouldn’t let you out either if I thought you’d just run away again.”

Héloïse doesn’t laugh. When she speaks, her voice is hush. “I don’t blame her,” she says, followed by quiet. And then: “I told her I was sorry. We talked a lot.”

“That’s good.”

“Mm. I still have to go to Milan, though.”

Marianne picks at her jeans. On the other end, without warning, comes a sneeze. Marianne looks up at the paintings across her on the wall and beams to herself. “You have a cold, then?”

Héloïse’s voice is low and amused. “Yeah, but I don’t know which part did it. The running into the sea or the walking home in the rain.”

“Hm. Or maybe it was in… what we did in the field…” Marianne half regrets bringing it up, feeling the rush of blood in her cheeks.

“Oh,” Héloïse laughs properly, and Marianne hears her sigh loudly. “That was a decision we made.”

“A hazy decision,” Marianne has her head bent, still smiling. “I don’t regret that though.”

“Mm. We could have put a blanket down.”

_“Crisse.”_

They both laugh silently at themselves. Without thinking, Marianne looks to her left and sees her bags piled up against the wall. All the humour seeps from the situation. She feels the welling in her chest and behind her eyes.

Héloïse seems to sense it. “I’ll call before you leave. What time are you going?”

Marianne stares at her bags. She can’t seem to move her head. “One.”

Silence. Marianne shuts her eyes.

“There’s so much I want to say to you,” says Héloïse quietly, “but not over the phone.”

Marianne is afraid to open her mouth. She swallows.

Neither can quite bring themselves to hang up. Héloïse only goes when her mother calls, and then Marianne lies on her back and shivers at the ceiling.

\--

Marianne hears a knock at the door downstairs but is busied at her desk. It’s likely a concerned neighbour. She only looks up when Pauline calls her name.

She turns into the hall after walking down the stairs and doesn’t have time to look before she is bowled over by a drenched, dripping mess with arms that squeeze her tightly.

“God, you’re so fucking _stupid!”_ comes Sophie’s voice, shouting into Marianne’s shoulder where she has buried her head.

“Sophie!” a scolding tone comes from across the room. Marianne, though dazed, manages to look up over Sophie’s shoulder. A bald man she recognises as Sophie’s dad is stood trying to close a broken umbrella, shooting his daughter a warning glare even when she isn’t looking at him. Beside him is Pauline, looking vaguely amused between the three in her corridor.

Marianne hears herself say: “No, she’s right,” and she shakes her head, hugging Sophie just as tightly, not caring that her clothes are being soaked all the way through to her skin. “I’ve been stupid.”

\--

“I should have done something.”

Sophie’s voice is level, but when Marianne looks over at her she is frowning at the ceiling. The pair of them have lain back on Marianne’s bed. Sophie’s wet tendrils of hair are a little dried and she has been lent a towel from Pauline’s bathroom, which she lies on top of. Sophie blinks softly. The anger she showed in the corridor has finally ebbed after she gave Marianne a scolding Jeanne would be proud of.

Now, Sophie has turned quiet and pensive. “I knew you were thinking of something,” Sophie admits, not looking at Marianne. “You’re not a good liar.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A smile flickers on Sophie’s face. When she speaks again, her voice is somewhat strained. “If I had known exactly what you were planning I would have stopped you.”

Marianne is awash with guilt once again, sour and all-consuming. She can’t imagine that she will ever get over the hurt she has caused in this short time. She turns her head and stares at the ceiling to avoid Sophie’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, hoarse.

Without warning, Marianne feels her hand behind taken. Sophie clasps it in her own, and they lie their arms between each other on the sheets. Marianne’s eyes are prickling, but she blinks the sensation away.

“It’s just that…” she tries to surmise a significant explanation. But there is none. So she tells the truth instead. “In those moments when we were together, I couldn’t think of anything else. I forgot that other people existed. It was just her.”

And what more is there to say?

\--

Marianne and Sophie share another long hug in the corridor and when they pull apart Sophie says: “I’d still be mad at you if we weren’t saying goodbye right now.”

“We’ll stay in touch,” Marianne says, and she means it. “What if we wrote letters?”

Sophie’s eyes light. “Oh, that’s such a cute idea! Will you text me your address?”

“Of course.”

Sophie squeezes her arm. Outside the door, her dad is waiting in the rain with a red umbrella borrowed from Pauline (the broken one is still lying in the corridor). He smiles briefly at Marianne from beneath hooded eyes. Sophie’s mouth wobbles. She blinks, and nods, following her dad without another word. Marianne stands there as the door shuts.

Pauline turns to her, eyes flicking over her face. Marianne tears her eyes from the doorframe and smiles weakly at her. Pauline reaches out and ruffles her hair. Marianne is going to miss that, though she would never admit it.

“We go in an hour, okay?” she says softly.

Marianne nods and clears her throat. “I just need to finish something.”

Pauline withdraws her hand and Marianne walks up the stairs. They creak beneath her heavy steps.

\--

When the necklace is finished, she puts it on. Uses her phone to look at herself in the camera.

It’s starkly green against her cotton shirt. You would never know it had ever been an earring. Marianne has never been one for jewellery, but she knows it is something she will wear every day, and clasp to her chest in times of heartache.

She meets her own eyes in the camera. Young and hazel, but also heavier than they were when she first came to the island. Marianne smiles at her reflection like she is looking at somebody else.

She puts the phone down on the bed and walks around the room like it’s a museum. It feels like one. The museum of Marianne. She cracks a smile. How selfish. Other people have stayed in this room, she is sure. Relatives or otherwise. This house has seen a lot, Marianne thinks. It’s an old place. Maybe one day, it will witness another love story. Another coming of age.

That’s what she’s done this summer, she supposes. Come of age. But Marianne doesn’t quite feel like an adult yet. What makes one an adult? It’s not sex, she resolves. She’s only done that once anyway. And probably won’t get to again for a long time. Even if she could, she’s not sure she would want to with somebody else.

Marianne shuts her eyes, rocking with the weight of that sentiment. When will she meet Héloïse again? Will they be women when they next see each other?

Marianne locks eyes on the balcony door. They rattle with the thrashing wind. Like the storm is trying to get in.

Marianne strokes her pendant. It’s heavy on her chest. She breathes in.

Marianne fiddles for a moment with the handle, but when it’s twisted both doors fling inward. Both Marianne and the floorboards are sprayed with rain.

The walks out into it, blinking fervently and grappling for the railing. Her hair sticks to her neck and her clothes to her skin. She tries to breathe and tilts her head up into the cracking sky.

 _“I’M A WOMAN!”_ she yells.

The storm roars in her face.

There’s a hand on her back. Marianne doesn’t turn, recognising the touch. Pauline comes up beside her and only then does Marianne turn her head.

“What are you like?” asks Pauline with an unsurprised shake of her head. Marianne watches her mouth move. She’s wearing her glasses, which have become fogged and dappled with raindrops.

Marianne is crying but doesn’t know if Pauline can tell because of the rain that streams down her face. But soon she crumples and her jaw wobbles. Pauline inhales through her nose and holds out her arms. Marianne falls into her embrace.

\--

M Are u going to call?

Marianne stares blankly at the unread text message. She is sat in Pauline’s car, bags piled up on the seat, breathing in the musty air. She is still soaked from the balcony, and Pauline is out in the storm right now locking the door. There’s no escaping this weather, really. Marianne’s thumb hovers above the ‘call’ button on the screen, but her shoulders sag and she relents. She already tried to call several times to no avail. She thinks that Héloïse’s phone has been taken away, or maybe she’s asleep.

She will probably call when they are driving to the ferry, or maybe when Marianne is onboard. But Marianne wanted to hear Héloïse’s voice as they pulled away from the house. She stares glumly at her phone, hoping against hope that it will buzz in her grasp.

Pauline opens the car door and bustles her way in. She is completely drenched and searches for something to dry her glasses on. She settles on the seat beside her. Marianne sits completely still, the hope slowly fading like the glow of the sunset down the side of the earth.

 _“D’accord,”_ Pauline breathes, sliding the glasses back up her nose. She puts her seatbelt on and turns around to look at Marianne. “Ready?”

No.

But she nods once.

Pauline presses her lip into a line. She reaches around her car seat and squeezes Marianne’s knee. Then, with an inhale, Pauline turns and starts the car.

Marianne tries not to cry as the car growls. She lies back against the grey seat and turns to stare out the flooded window as the house she had spent two unbelievable weeks in moves away from view.

And then there’s a hand slapped against the window. Marianne lurches up and emits a slight yell. Pauline heard it too, and twists in the front seat, asking in a confused tone: “What - ?”

The hand has an arm attached. And suddenly a body. Marianne doesn’t dare hope. But then, attached to a marble neck and wearing the hood of a raincoat is a head of yellow hair and swimming eyes that squint through the rain-dappled window.

Marianne doesn’t hesitate in wrestling to open the door. She hears a soft swearing from Pauline, but she doesn’t seem too resistant. Marianne pushes the door open with her foot and steps out into a thin layer of water. And there is Héloïse in a dark blue raincoat with an expression of ever-serious relief. Marianne takes her wonderful face in both hands and kisses Héloïse so that she leans backwards.

Kissing in a storm. But the storm feels so secondary and invisible in this moment. Marianne is lit up with warmth inside. A fire lives within them both, and it could never be extinguished, not by wind or rain. Not by the tears that stain both their cheeks.

They are only broken apart by Pauline’s shouting. Marianne turns, reluctantly, and sees Pauline walking around the car. “In you go!” she’s yelling, a knowing smile on her face. She gestures towards the car with one hand. “I’ll wait. Five minutes, okay?”

Marianne nods, completely dazed. She finds that she is grinning wildly despite the tears streaming from her eyes. She takes Héloïse’s hand and bends down to get into the car. Héloïse follows and shuts the door behind her, leaving them both alone in the stuffy, warm air.

Marianne rubs her wet face with her soaked sleeve which, shockingly, doesn’t help in the slightest. But she doesn’t try again, not wanting to take her eyes off Héloïse’s face for a moment more. Héloïse and her drenched hair and the hood she has pulled off of her head. Her closed-mouth smile and wide, loving eyes. Eyes red from crying.

Marianne shakes her head, disbelieving. She sniffs, and croaks out: “Will your mother not kill you?”

Héloïse’s smile doesn’t falter. “No,” she says, and pulls Marianne’s hand, encouraging her to look out the window. Marianne peers out through the rain-flecked glass and sees Antonia being ushered inside by Pauline, who has unlocked her door again. Antonia glances around the car once more before entering the house.

Marianne laughs and shakes her head. She turns back to Héloïse and they stare at each other, unable to speak. What do you say at a time like this? Marianne makes a throaty sound, trying to wipe her face again. Her bottom lip is wobbling and her heart is fit to burst. She never understood that phrase until now. But she does feel like she’s going to explode. She shifts closer to Héloïse and presses hands to her shoulders, her upper arms, looking them all over. Héloïse is here. She is concrete, corporeal. Marianne exhales a shaky breath.

“Oh!” Héloïse emits through her sniffling. She picks up the green pendant from where it hangs around Marianne’s neck, and bursts with a short laugh. She twists it in her fingers and then seems to remember something. She turns her head, pushing a sodden strand of hair away so that Marianne can see she is still wearing the earring.

Marianne smiles and tilts her head, eyelids fluttering. “Green suits you.”

“Mm.”

“It’s your eyes, I think.”

Héloïse gazes at her. “I love you,” she says.

Marianne doesn’t flinch.

Héloïse shrugs. “I know it’s boring to say it like that,” her voice is hoarse, “you were more creative when you mentioned it by the fire. If – if that was intentional…”

“It was,” Marianne says. She feels overwhelmingly warm, even as rainwater shivers on her skin.

Héloïse doesn’t move at first. She’s still holding tight to Marianne’s pendant. A smile blooms slowly across her cheeks and she leans in.

Marianne and Héloïse kiss in the backseat of Pauline’s car. A pair of foolish gay teenagers.

No. A pair of foolish gay women.

Marianne is a woman who loves Héloïse. Héloïse is a woman who loves Marianne. They are much more than their feelings for each other, of course, but that’s a part of them. Right now it feels like a big part.

They love each other.

They kiss for a long time. All that needs to be said has been said. Marianne’s lips will be swollen tomorrow and her mother will know and she doesn’t care even a little. She holds tight to Héloïse’s shirt and inhales shakily as she pulls away from her mouth. They lean against each other’s foreheads.

“Look at us,” whispers Héloïse, smiling. “We’re soaked again. The way we were the first time we met.”

Héloïse holds her by the back of the neck, and Marianne knows that she will always feel that grip there. Like that unshakeable feeling of a spider on skin. The same way she sometimes feels her dad’s hand in her hair. Another ghost will live in her body.

But Héloïse is not a ghost. Héloïse is alive; beautifully, flagrantly so. She will live on when they part and Marianne will do the same. They are not the beginning and end of each other.

Pauline taps on the window and Marianne exhales. They don’t let go of each other and Marianne steps out of the car with Héloïse. Antonia stands under Pauline’s door with folded arms. It’s difficult to make out her expression, but that doesn’t matter right now. There’s nobody else Marianne wants to focus on.

Marianne touches Héloïse’s face. The face she will surely draw on paper and in the air and on the glass shower door when it’s all steamed up from the hot water. Héloïse inhales and fixes Marianne with a hard, red-eyed stare. The beast they call determination.

Pauline honks the horn.

“I’ll come back next summer,” promises Marianne, a near shout through the thrashing weather. “Even if you’re not here.”

“I will be,” says Héloïse.

Marianne smiles. Her legs shake. If she were not holding onto Héloïse she might have fallen by now. “You can’t be sure of that.”

But Héloïse is firm. “I’ll be here. I’ll learn to swim so I can cross the ocean, Marianne. I will.”

And even as they let go of each other, Marianne knows it to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Here we are.  
> Oh, wow, I'm actually a little emotional about this ending. Probably because as it stands I think this will be my last poalof fic and likely my last fic full stop. Don't hold me to that if I cave and come back for round three though. I certainly won't be writing another fic of this length, I mean jesus christ. It's literally novel-length at this point.  
> I cannot thank you all enough for reading this. I have gained an enormous ego from all your kind comments! Unless you hate this ending, then feel free to roast the shit out of me down below. But I'm happy with it. I know it's not very fairytale, but what is? I hope Céline Sciamma and the wonderful cast and crew of poalof wouldn't consider this whole thing blasphemous. Oh, whatever. I had fun.  
> And I shall stop rambling and leave it here.
> 
> Le grá,   
> Appleface.  
> xxx


	22. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Marianne finds it in a cardboard box under the bed. There are several boxes under there, actually, full of things from her mother’s house that technically belong to her.

Much of it is art-related. Lots of her sketchbooks from the age of about two and upwards seeing as her parents were such hoarders. She hasn’t gone through them in years, certainly not since she moved in here. The last time Marianne looked was when she turned twenty-one and found an oil painting of herself as a toddler, done by her father. That painting is now hung up in the hallway and she tears up if she looks at it too long. Though she would never admit such a thing,

Marianne wasn’t actually looking for a sketchbook when she dove in under the bed. She was searching for an old tie-dye t-shirt she had been thinking of recently. Sophie told her that tie-dye is in fashion now, so what better time? Though she could be completely lying and Marianne would be none the wiser; she’s not exactly on top of her fashion game. She hasn’t found the shirt anyway and in the process grabbed a small dusty box full of teenage memories. And it’s here, kneeling on the floor with the window open to the late afternoon sky, that Marianne finds that little black sketchpad, half of which is unfinished scribbles. But the other half is all repetition of a familiar face. On the inside cover, top right is _Marianne, 17._ In scratchy handwriting.

Marianne smiles lightly to herself, holding the delicate pages between her fingers. She quietly gets onto her feet and transfers the sketchbook to one hand. With the other, she pulls her phone from the pocket of her shorts and takes a picture of the inside cover.

M Look what I found!

She attaches the photo. It’s only seconds later that the message and picture are seen. Pauline is slow to respond. She’s always been bad at texting.

P Wow ! Lots of memories in there. xx

The smile flutters on Marianne’s face. She puts the phone back in her pocket and walks out of the room into the corridor, bare feet cool against the floorboards.

“Guess what?” she calls before she gets to the living room.

There’s no response, but when she walks in, Héloïse is already looking up. She’s on the couch with the laptop on her stretched-out legs. Her hair is up, some strands stuck to her forehead with sweat. Her eyes are wide and expectant and she moves her feet so that Marianne can sit at the end of the couch. Marianne is already smiling, unable to keep it down. She brandishes the sketchbook, clutching it in both hands.

Héloïse’s expression is blank. “A sketchbook,” she recites.

Marianne narrows her eyes. “You’re not wrong.”

“Is it a specific one?” Héloïse squints at it. “Should I be remembering this?”

“I mean… you know what, in fairness, it is quite generic on the outside,” Marianne drops it to her lap for a moment and opens it. She hands it over to Héloïse, who takes it in both hands. “Look inside the cover.”

Héloïse does as she’s asked. Her eyes wander for a moment before landing on the name and age. Her clear eyes flash and she sits up against the arm of the couch, the laptop falling back onto her thighs. She stretches her legs so that her feet land on Marianne’s lap and Marianne mindlessly lies her wrists atop Héloïse’s ankles. Héloïse stares inside the cover. Slowly, a smile blooms across her face. Ever-beautiful. She looks up at Marianne. “Where did you find it?”

“Under the bed. Hey, wait,” she reaches out to snatch the sketchbook away as Héloïse starts to flip through the pages. Héloïse glares at her, wrinkling her nose in a faux-irritated sort of way. Marianne lets slip a smile. “I want to look at it with you. Come here.”

Héloïse softens. She moves the laptop, shutting it down and placing it on the floor.

“Were you busy?” asks Marianne, suddenly worried that she has torn Héloïse away from important work.

“No, just editing,” she dismisses. Héloïse pushes away from her lounging position and sits beside Marianne, legs folded neatly. She glances up. “It’s due on Wednesday,” she reassures, placing a kind hand on Marianne’s knee. “And I’m pretty much done anyway. You know I’m always on top of things.”

Marianne relaxes. Héloïse is the only one who would’ve known that she was at all tense in the first place. “Not always,” murmurs Marianne, letting one leg stretch out while the other is crossed beneath her, Héloïse’s hand still there. “You still haven’t got a dress.”

“Yes, well that’s because there are so many options!” Héloïse is suddenly defensive, sitting up straight. “And I might wear a suit. You don’t know.”

Marianne smiles fondly, resting the sketchbook on her lap. “I think Sophie is more stressed about the wedding than you are.”

“We have lots of time. You really did have art block, didn’t you?”

Marianne swats at Héloïse, who catches the hand mid-air and cradles it, grinning unapologetically. She’s not wrong. The pages Marianne are turning are full up with starts and no finishes. She furrows her brow as she flicks through. “I was so stupid. Why did I never put the date?”

“It was summer,” says Héloïse. She is cracking her knuckles finger by finger, something she does after every long typing session. “No one knows what day it is when you have no routine.”

“But, like, I never did it. I was just lazy.”

“You’re not much better now.”

“Excuse me?”

Héloïse’s eyes are wide and averted when Marianne looks up in mock-astonishment. Héloïse shrugs, staring pointedly at the pages of the sketchbook. “I said what I said.”

“I am not lazy!”

“Only recently.”

Marianne squints at her. “Are we going to fight?”

“No!” Héloïse looks up at last, smiling in earnest. They hold a stare for a little while. Eventually, Héloïse inhales. “You usually have a very good work ethic. You still do. But there’s a heatwave. The days are sluggish. I come home and you’re asleep on the couch.”

“It’s a comfortable couch,” mumbles Marianne, unmoved.

“You’re angry!” Héloïse grins, shoulders hunched. The cheek of her. “It’s not the worst thing. Sloth is one of the stupidest of the seven deadly sins. Aside from lust. And most of them, actually.”

Marianne purses her lips.

“Hey,” Héloïse says, softer. Marianne turns her head pointedly to the sketchbook and starts to flick through. Héloïse makes an amused sound and props her chin on Marianne’s shoulder. “Hey! I’m sorry. Don’t be mad, you know I can’t bear it.”

Her tone is light but pleading. Marianne breaks. Her grudges are never long held in this house. “I’m not lazy,” she murmurs, reaching across to Héloïse’s lap, where she entangles their fingers. “And I put dates on everything now.”

Héloïse says nothing, but sits up again, sidling in closer to Marianne. It’s really too warm for this sort of behaviour. The windows are open all the time. In their room, the duvet is abandoned on the floor. Well, Héloïse will soon insist that it be packed away. She doesn’t like clutter or mess, which is cause for much of the arguments they have. Though Marianne can’t remember the last time they really argued, and frankly she doesn’t want to.

“Oh!” Héloïse pulls Marianne from her wandering. She reaches out to touch the page Marianne has landed on. Her fingernails are freshly cut. The drawing she touches is scribbled and imperfect. Smudged at the edges. But despite it’s unfinished and amateur nature, Marianne recognizes that landscape. She sees the waves and can almost hear them for a moment.

“Is that the day you came?” Héloïse asks though she knows already.

“I remember it too well,” Marianne is quickly turned fond by nostalgia. “The beach was empty. Or, I thought it was.”

“Mm,” Héloïse hums into Marianne’s shoulder. She is remembering. “I thought it was too.”

“What a shock we both got.”

“Me more than you, I think.”

Marianne smiles again. It’s taken years, but she can finally look back on that instance without embarrassment. She loves to tell the story of their initial meeting and laugh at herself. She still remembers it, in flashes. Her panic, the cold sea. The first time she heard Héloïse’s voice.

“I love that place,” says Marianne. “We should visit again.”

“True. We haven’t been in ages.”

“Neither has Sophie.”

Héloïse makes an amused sound. “I think Sophie is still sick of being stuck there for eighteen years of life. Give her another few years.”

“Mm. I wish I had done more drawings of the area,” Marianne says, “I did some paintings the year after, but Pauline has those.”

“Well, you were too occupied by a certain someone that first year,” Héloïse murmurs, sitting up straight again. Marianne turns and sees her eyebrows lowered and lips curled. “I was just too irresistible.”

“Yeah, so sexy with your airpods and lack of swimming skills,” Marianne whispers and touches Héloïse’s cheek. Héloïse smacks her hand and flushes, biting her smile away.

They leaf onwards. Some more failed sketches. Héloïse recognizes some of the areas that Marianne has forgotten about. That white wall. An alleyway with a cracked footpath. An abandoned bicycle.

And, of course, then there’s Héloïse sprawled across several pages. Sketches on a white daybed, reading her sister's book, having a bad day. Some are filled in with watercolour.

Marianne is surprised by the sudden rush she feels in seeing these sketches again. They don’t have many photos left from that summer, only the ones taken on Sophie’s phone and that picture of Héloïse giving Marianne’s camera the middle finger. But even if Marianne had taken more pictures of them, of Héloïse, it would not quite be the same. This preservation is one of a kind. This is what Marianne saw of Héloïse from her shiny-eyed, teenage perspective. This was not only the awakening of her love for Héloïse but also the reawakening of her love for art. This imperfect sketch on the left page, of Héloïse’s hair and shoulder and outstretched legs, is the first sketch Marianne had finished in months. Her heart swells just a little as she remembers that day. The silence in the room that was not uncomfortable. The breaking of it. Getting a better angle.

Héloïse doesn’t say anything, so Marianne turns the page. There are more sketches of Héloïse, some from memory. And on the page after there is a clear shift. There are sketches of Héloïse sprawled in a field with an apple, in all different positions. Coloured in with pencil and others with paint.

Marianne frowns at some of them. The leg sticks out oddly. The grass she lies on falls wrong. The shadows and light are not confident.

Héloïse notices. Of course she does. “What?”

Marianne hesitates, squinting at the sketches. “I remember them being better than they are,” she admits. “I know I was a kid, but. It’s too bad.”

“I like them,” says Héloïse. Marianne looks at her quizzically, and Héloïse wears a plain and honest face. “They look the way we felt.”

“Messy?”

“Yes,” Héloïse says confidently. They stare at each other for a moment longer and then devolve into grins and shaking heads.

Marianne goes to turn the page but Héloïse takes her hand away. “You move too fast. Savour it.”

“They’re not going anywhere,” Marianne defends but doesn’t untangle their fingers.

“Well, maybe you’ll put it away and we won’t look at it again for another decade,” Héloïse shrugs. “And next time you see them they’ll probably look even worse because you’ll have improved even more.”

Marianne wrinkles her nose. “I think I’ve run out of improvement. I’m stuck where I am.”

“You probably thought that when you were seventeen too.”

This is a fair point. They look at the pages a little longer.

Héloïse sighs dramatically.

“What?” asks Marianne.

Héloïse doesn’t answer. And then, she sits back against the couch. Marianne looks at her serious face and they hold the stare for a moment.

Then, Héloïse says: “I still can’t believe we decided to fuck in a field.”

Marianne breaks into a grin and laughs. At who? At both of them, probably. “Out of everything, that’s what you can’t believe?”

“I feel like we would have been smarter than that,” Héloïse protests, playing mindlessly with Marianne’s fingers as they speak.

Marianne makes an indignant, throaty sound. “You say ‘we’. I remember it being your idea.”

“You didn’t take much convincing,” Héloïse glazes over Marianne’s argument. She shakes her head, disbelieving. “Like, bugs! What were we thinking?”

She’s not wrong. But Marianne shrugs. “We weren’t thinking. About any of it.”

She is hit by passing wind. Heavy air. Guilt, an old friend. The running away plot always brings a piece of that embarrassment out of her. She’s had to do much reckoning with her younger self over that decision. But she and Héloïse have discussed it to death. Marianne can think about it and breathe now. Maybe, at their wedding, they’ll joke about it. Maybe she’ll mention it in her vows. She needs to finish those. But it’s really not fair; Héloïse is the writer here. And how could she put all her feelings onto paper?

Héloïse is not feeling guilty, nor is she thinking of vows. She makes a low sound in her throat, the same way she does when she’s telling someone off. “We were way too horny for our own good.”

She blinks. And her serious expression creases as she fails to bat down a smile. Marianne looks at her as she starts to laugh.

Marianne wants to laugh too, despite not knowing the joke. That’s just how it is with Héloïse. “ _Quoi?”_ she asks with a smile of her own.

Héloïse rocks forward with her laughter and holds tight to Marianne’s fist. She gets the words out eventually: “I remember you were like, _“oh, I haven’t googled anything…_ ”

It’s little things like that which embarrass Marianne to this day. She hides her face before it can start burning and Héloïse laughs harder. Such a lovely sound, even at her own expense. Soon, Héloïse is prying the fingers away, trying to get through to Marianne’s pink cheeks.

“Hey,” says Héloïse, smothering her laughter. Through her fingers, Marianne sees teeth appear and disappear in Héloïse’s smile. Marianne allows half her face to seep through as she pulls the hand down her face, cupping her own chin.

Héloïse takes her wrists, still wheezing. “It was endearing,” she insists, high-pitched in her amusement. “And you… to my memory, it was very good.”

“Hmm. Thanks.”

“Really!” says Héloïse, eyebrows shot up. “It was a surprisingly good first time. Especially considering we were in a field.”

At last, Marianne drops her defenses, allowing her hands to be taken by Héloïse once again. They’re sweaty and now so is her face. And yet, Héloïse still stares at her like she is something wonderful. After a pause, Marianne opens her mouth to speak before she fully realises what she is about to say.

“They say it’s better when you’re in love,” is what comes out.

Héloïse blinks softly. “I believe that,” she says.

A kind moment is softly broken, if there’s such a thing, by Héloïse reaching onto Marianne’s lap to turn the page.

It’s quickly apparent from the nature of these new sketches that these are post-island. Marianne has some idea of what follows. “You haven’t seen any of these,” says Marianne quietly.

Héloïse stays silent. She is observing the pages. They are blurry and dreamlike, intentionally smudged. Not all of Héloïse. Some of corners in Pauline’s house, warped and strangely coloured. Some scribbled, nonsensical colouring. Marianne can’t remember what she was going for there.

They turn the page. There sits Héloïse’s house from memory, from the outside. It’s not perfect, Marianne is sure. It also looks strange, but this is intentional. There is something ghostly and dead about it, like a haunted manor. Marianne remembers being concerned by such a place becoming empty. But on the next page, there is the house again, with lights in the windows. But this isn’t a memory. This isn’t from when Héloïse lived there. This is the imagination of somebody new within those walls. At the time, Marianne found this even worse than the place becoming empty.

She doesn’t feel that way now. It was a selfish thought, to think that no new life could be born within that place. That it should stay a relic of their past rather than blossom with something new. But Marianne forgives her past self. She was upset. For a long time.

Héloïse flicks the paper again. Marianne feels her stiffen at the sight that greets them both.

A drawing spread across two pages. The first really finished thing in this whole sketchbook. The island. A beach. Héloïse stands in her clothes in the grey ocean, facing away. The sky is cracked and furious.

It sucks the air from both their lungs for a moment. Marianne had forgotten about this one.

Héloïse doesn’t move. Marianne sneaks a glance and sees fixated, unblinking eyes. Small mouth. Studying. Marianne awaits her reaction.

When it comes, Héloïse says: “It’s of that day.”

It’s not a question because she knows that she is right. And Marianne doesn’t ask her to elaborate. She looks back at the double spread. “I was furious,” she admits.

“With me?”

“No,” she answers honestly, “not afterwards. But in the moment I was. I wanted to capture that.”

“Why would you want to capture it?”

Marianne twigs the difference in her tone. She looks up from the sketchbook to find Héloïse no longer staring at the page, instead fixated on Marianne’s face with a pair of watery eyes. There is something welling.

Marianne sees the tightness of her throat. The wobble of her jaw. She forgets about the drawing and pulls away from it to take Héloïse’s cheeks with her hands. Héloïse crumbles even more.

“Ugh,” she croaks, her voice thick and mumbly. Héloïse gives a sharp shake of her head. It doesn’t help. “Ew. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I haven’t cried in so long. I feel like a child.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Héloïse wrinkles her nose and shakes her head again. She trembles in the sweltering heat. She clings to Marianne’s wrists and avoids her eyes. She takes a few shivery breaths before she tries to speak again. Marianne waits. She would wait forever if she had to.

Héloïse exhales. Still doesn’t look Marianne in the eye. There’s a tear streaking down her flushed cheek, thin and shivery.

“It’s,” she tries. Marianne holds her face. “It’s just,” Héloïse’s words are fragile, uttered with care. “It was really hard, wasn’t it?”

That alone seems too much. Héloïse’s mouth wobbles, head dipping downwards as more tears leak, only to be caught by the thumbs that stroke her cheeks. Marianne leans forward. She feels the sketchbook fall and soon hears as it clatters on the floorboards, but Marianne is only focused on Héloïse, who collapses thankfully into her arms.

Héloïse mumbles, leaden with upset: “I never want to be so far away from you again.”

Marianne feels arms wind around her waist. Héloïse trembles like dew on a flower petal. She breathes unevenly and her sadness soaks Marianne’s shoulder. Marianne too has to control her breathing. Her throat has become sore and her eyes heavy.

She waits and rubs Héloïse’s back. On this late afternoon, Héloïse is a weight on her, a beautiful, sorrowful warmth draped like a blanket. Another evening, Marianne will be the weight. They take turns and sometimes they are both like this at once. And they lean on the other. And agree to never feel guilty for it.

Soon Héloïse is not trembling quite so much. Slowly, she moves from Marianne’s embrace, though she doesn’t pull away altogether. Instead, she lies with her head on Marianne’s shoulder, in the crook of her neck.

At last, Marianne addresses what was said. “It was hard,” she agrees. Héloïse’s fingertips dot a pattern on her palm. “But we got through it. And look at us. We’re together now.”

Héloïse nods. Marianne feels another tear drip down her shoulder. Silently, she sits up and makes herself face Marianne. Her eyes are swollen and red, her jaw clenched. When she smiles, it’s wobbly but not forced. She nods again. Marianne reaches up to stroke her hair. Héloïse shuts her eyes and leans into the hand, which makes Marianne hum in amusement. Héloïse smiles again. Stronger still.

“We do have the best love story ever though,” says Marianne after another moment.

Héloïse opens her eyes. They are especially clear, the way they always are after she cries like she just did. They hold some watery amusement. “You only think that because it’s us,” she manages quietly, “everybody thinks their own love stories are the best.”

Marianne shrugs. “Everybody is right.”

Héloïse smiles and nods again. They look at each other with such adoration.

Marianne can’t wait to marry her.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp huff and pulls herself away from the sweaty entanglement they’ve found themselves in. “We can look at that more later if you want. But I haven’t eaten since eleven this morning,” she stretches her legs, still sitting on the couch. "What do you want for dinner?”

She turns her head to see Héloïse wiping her eyes. In a still-croaky voice, she says: “That ass.”

Marianne unsuccessfully bats down a flushed smile and shakes her head. “You’re not funny.”

“Actually, I think you’ll find I’m hilarious,”

Marianne laughs, rolling her eyes. She leans in and kisses Héloïse. Soft and reassuring. In case there was any lingering part of her that believed that Marianne didn’t mean what she said. When she pulls away, Héloïse’s eyes are a little teary again.

Marianne squeezes her leg quickly and then stands up with a dramatic groan. As she walks across, stretching her arms and finding the door to the kitchen, Héloïse calls out: “Marianne?”

Marianne turns around. Héloïse looks at her with soft eyes. Head tilted, hair frizzy in the heat. Sweat on her forehead. Beautiful beyond belief.

“I love you,” Héloïse says. “And could you make pasta?”

Marianne smiles. “Yeah.” She pats the doorframe. “I love you too.”

She makes pasta.

\--

They go to sleep with the windows open and lie entangled despite the heat. Maybe tonight they are happier than they have ever been. Maybe. _Peut-être._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise epilogue!!! Did I get yis? Are you crying? I am, nearly.  
> I’m not here to say much, I only wanted to reveal a little plot twist that’s not necessarily exciting but may be interesting to some. I happen to be a seventeen-year-old at the time of writing this. Less of a plot twist, really, more of an 'oh, that's vaguely interesting' sort of fact. Nothing as interesting or romantic as this plotline has ever happened to me. Many teenagers don’t have an exciting life like this, or experience romance or adventure or have great friendships until they become adults. This is not real life, at all. It’s a fantasy. And a lovely one, I think. I had fun.  
> This is really the end now. If this were an actual novel I would’ve certainly just ended it on the final chapter. But fuck it. I wanted to write something for myself and that meant this fluffy epilogue. I hope it’s okay.  
> Love yis.  
> xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think.  
> Also. The title is,,,,, not necessarily a simple minds reference.  
> In fact, I was thinking of the song of the same name by Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs.  
> But either is good. Or none at all!  
> I go on for too long, as usual.


End file.
